


31 Days In The Life Of Harry Potter

by Selly87



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Bottom Harry Potter, Domestic Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy's Owl - Freeform, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild S&M, Older Draco, Older Harry Potter, One Word Prompts, POV Harry Potter, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Pre-Slash, Rimming, Romance, Smut, Top Draco Malfoy, Top Harry Potter, self-imposed challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 13:53:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 63,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16451210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selly87/pseuds/Selly87
Summary: Somehow something strange always happens in the life of one Harry Potter.





	1. Trust

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [31 Days In The Life Of Draco Malfoy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16143017) by [Selly87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selly87/pseuds/Selly87). 



> Somehow my my contribution ( **"31 Days In The Life Of Draco Malfoy"** ) to the _"Writober 2018"_ One Word Prompts Challenge over at _"Drarry: Fanfiction and Fanart"_ took on a life of it's own and after the lovely Debs ( _you wicked, wicked woman!_ ) put a plot bunny into my head ( _"these would be fantastic from Harry's POV"_ ), which I ignored for the longest time, I finally succumbed to the irresistible draw to challenge myself to continue writing about Draco's and Harry's relationship. While **"31 Days In The Life Of Draco Malfoy"** gave a great insight into the mind of Draco, I'd like to now try and do the same with Harry, which I think will be much more of a challenge, at least for me. Wish me luck!
> 
> Note: The 31 days I'll be writing about are not consecutive days but random moments in Draco's and Harry's lives, inspired by one word prompts. You also do not have to have read **"31 Days In The Life Of Draco Malfoy"** to understand **"31 Days In The Life Of Harry Potter"**.

“I don’t think I will ever understand you,” Draco hugs him from behind, rests his chin on Harry’s shoulder and presses a gentle kiss against his neck. Harry shudders and thinks there’s no way he’ll ever get used to the sensations that curse through him whenever Draco hugs him like that. It’s all tender and loving and it makes his brain go mush and leaves him with only one thought, _namely that he is head over heels in love with Draco Malfoy_. Not that that’s anything new, though even seven years after the war _The Prophet_ still begs to differ. He smiles to himself, leans back into Draco’s familiar embrace, relishes in the warmth of Draco’s firm body pressed up against his and sighs softly. Perfection. Utter perfection.

“Why?” he asks, mildly curious, takes a sip from his hot sugary milky morning tea and resumes looking out of the living room window of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, though there’s nothing at all to see. The street below is deserted, which isn’t surprising since the sky is still pitch-black and will be for at least a few more hours. It’s barely gone five a.m. in the morning and it’s an ungodly hour to be up and about, Harry can admit that much. The eerie silence of the early morning is positively creepy, but it’s a definite improvement to the horrific nightmare that roused him from his sleep and made it sheer impossible to find any peace…let alone continue sleeping. While he would have preferred to stay in bed and curl up at Draco’s side, an overwhelming restlessness, that still lingers now, forced him out of bed and into the downstairs living room.

He’s secretly glad that Draco got out of bed to investigate his absence because if there’s one thing that Draco is not, it’s a morning person. Especially in the middle of winter. It does not matter how comfortably warm the house is, Draco always manages to come up with a compelling reason to stay in bed. At the very least until after sunrise and more often than not for half of the morning. Harry often wishes he could give into the temptation of spending all his time in bed with Draco. Sadly, being an Auror on active duty does not afford him the same luxury and while Draco can proof-read manuscripts from just about anywhere, Harry’s sense of duty prevents him from being sloppy — _or late_ — when it comes to his job. Even aged twenty-four he has that much sense of responsibility. Draco calls him an _old soul_ , and while he usually tells Draco to cut it out, he secretly loves it. He thinks Draco knows.  
  
“Because you gave up _me_ in favour of _this_.” Draco answers his question and while Harry isn’t exactly sure what exactly Draco means by ‘ _this’_ , he chooses not to ask. Instead, he’s thoroughly distracted when Draco steals his tea. Unlike Draco, he doesn’t protest. He knows Draco — _despite his sweet tooth, which he never admits to having, even if he’s chewing a Chocolate Frog_ — does not appreciate the overly sweet concoction he’s brewed. He doesn’t like it either, but the sugar rush is calming. In Draco’s opinion tea should be unsweetened with just a splash of milk. He considers anything other than that a crime against British tea culture. A mere ten seconds and a muffled sound of disgust later, Draco returns his tea and Harry smiles to himself. Some things never change.

“I didn’t give _you_ up.” Harry objects. “I gave up a warm bed. _You_ just happened to be in it.”

“How is that any different from what I just said?” Draco questions and Harry — _despite not being able to see his face_ — just knows that he’s frowning. He thinks it’s quite a feat for such an ungodly hour.

“I don’t think I’m going to win this.” Harry chuckles and wisely throws in the towel before things can get out of hand. It didn’t take him long to learn when to give up — in fact, a few heated arguments were all it ever took, which is strange because to this day he never backs away from an argument with Hermione Granger, even when he knows he’s wrong. Despite his stubborn nature, and unwillingness to let things go, experience has taught him that while there’s no way Draco will ever catch the Snitch before him in a Quidditch match, Harry will never win a debate against Draco. At least not in this life.

“No, you won’t,” Draco affirms and places a few feather-light kisses on his neck. Harry sets his teacup down on the windowsill, sighs softly and slowly turns in Draco’s loose embrace. He allows himself a moment to drown in those bright grey-blue eyes, then, as Draco captures his lips in a lazy kiss, closes his own eyes. And as he melts against him, deeply inhaling Draco’s familiar scent, Harry feels the last of his nightmare-induced tension ebb away. “Care to tell me what send you running for the hills?” Draco murmurs against his lips and Harry stiffens a little. They don’t usually talk about his nightmares — _or the war for that matter_ — but Draco distracts him by slipping his warm hands underneath his pyjama top and as he trails his fingertips up and down his spine, Harry relaxes enough to decide there’s absolutely no good reason in keeping the truth from Draco. There’s absolutely no good reason for keeping anything from Draco, ever. He has the disturbing talent of getting to the bottom of things one way or another. How he does it, is beyond Harry, he certainly isn’t using Legilimency. When he remains silent, Draco reminds him of something, he himself said to Draco shortly after the war, though the other way around: “ _Trusting me was your decision. Proving you right was my choice._ ”

“You’ll laugh.” Harry sighs, feeling foolish, stupid, exposed and just a tad embarrassed, though he doesn’t know why. His nightmares are few and far between, but they always strike with no foreboding and still manage to take it out of him. Some more than others.

“Have I ever?” Draco asks and Harry shakes his head, buries his face in Draco’s chest and breathes deeply.

“You dying, just like everyone else…after…after that…” Harry suddenly can’t bring himself to be articulate or speak without his voice breaking but something tells him that Draco knows, _he just knows_. He squeezes his burning eyes shut and silently curses his war-traumatised brain for attacking him when he’s least able to defend himself, _in his sleep_. He desperately wants to fight the urge to cry — _he’s a grown man, damnit, and he’s been to a mind healer for therapy_ — but when Draco simply tightens his hold on him and hugs him so tight it almost hurts, he loses his resolve to remain tough. He growls into Draco’s chest and hot tears fall, soaking Draco’s silk pyjama. Draco doesn’t shush him, in fact, he doesn’t say anything, just lets him have his moment and Harry counts his lucky stars for the day he decided to befriend Draco Malfoy, against the advice of everyone around him.


	2. Write

To the ordinary person, Draco appears to be perfectly calm, cool, and relaxed, poised even, but Harry can tell that Draco is nervous, really tense. Draco has his tells, they are hidden tells, but he has them and Harry knows them all. He’s had plenty of experience and practice studying Draco and he just knows. Whereas most people pace when agitated, Draco manages to remain perfectly still but his overly straight posture gives him away. Harry just knows that every muscle underneath Draco’s perfect porcelain skin is tense with anticipation and worry. He also knows that Draco’s mind his reeling. He’s quietly trying to come up with a million reasons as to why he shouldn’t have done what he did and a million more reasons to try and justify his actions.

Harry tries his best not to let Draco’s trepidation distract him from the very important task at hand, which is reading a few pages of the rough draft of Draco’s first manuscript. It’s taken him long enough to convince Draco to try and write his own book, and even longer to coax him into being allowed to read some of Draco’s work and he feels honoured that Draco trusts him enough to show him his work.

He chances a glance at Draco, who stands beside the fireplace, with his forearm casually resting atop the mantelpiece, a cup of coffee in hand and smiles, then turns the page and continues reading. Despite this only being his first draft, or so Draco repeatedly stressed when he reluctantly handed over the pages, Harry thinks Draco has a way with words that is more than just amazing. It’s mesmerising and wondrously beautiful and although Draco’s chosen literary genre is non-fiction Harry is hooked, which doesn’t happen very often when he’s reading something that isn’t a fantastical tale of unrestrained imagination or a grotesque horror thriller. He has to read enough non-fiction for his job, the last Harry wants to do is spend his free-time reading more non-fiction. But Draco’s ability to draw connections is beyond remarkable. He manages to ask all the right questions, manages to be truly provocative and utterly quick-witted.

It takes Harry another ten minutes to finish reading — _and that’s only because he takes his time and reads carefully, determined not to miss a single word_. Once done, he leans back on the sofa and looks at Draco, who raises his eyebrow at him in a silent question.

“More,” Harry demands. “I _need_ more of this.” He stresses and holds Draco’s gaze until Draco’s carefully constructed mask of nonchalance cracks and a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, pulling them upwards into a beautiful sincere smile. He abandons his coffee cup, abandons his place by the fireplace and strides over to the sofa. Harry wants to tell him that he looks fucking hot, but he doesn’t think its appropriate right this moment. He reckons his eyes probably give him away either way. He’s never quite managed the art of keeping his feelings out of them. He knows it’s his weakness but he doesn’t feel inclined to change anything about it.

“You best not be messing with me, Potter. I know a few very dark spells, they’d make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.” Draco mock-threatens and straddles his thighs. He sinks into Harry’s lap with such grace that Harry’s mouth goes dry and he has to consciously quench his desire to instantly apparate them into their bedroom…or rip Draco’s clothes off him without the slightest warning. “Scared, Potter?” Draco whispers, threads his fingers through Harry’s messy hair and leans close but not close enough.

“You wish, Malfoy,” Harry whispers.

“Be honest.” Draco insists and Harry can tell he still isn’t convinced that Harry really likes his work.

“With you, I always am,” Harry responds and it’s true. He’s never once lied to Draco or kept anything from him. Sure, there are things they don’t really talk about but they have never — _and will never_ — lie to each other. Their turbulent history has made it easy, easy to be honest with each other and Harry thinks it’s the glue that makes their relationship go from strength to strength. Harry runs the flat of his hands up Draco’s thighs and wraps his arms around Draco’s waist, pulling him closer and relishing in the feel of Draco’s firm body this close to his own. “Your way with words is out of this world amazing.” He says quietly and opts to let his eyes do the rest of the talking. Words aren’t necessary when he can say it so much better with a simple look.

“I’ll keep writing then.” Draco mumbles and Harry allows him to capture his lips in a leisurely kiss that rapidly grows out of hand as Harry’s primal instincts take over and he just has to have Draco, has to make him his all over again. He pushes him off his lap and down on the sofa, crawls after him and braces himself on his arms. He leans close, grinds his hips down, nips at Draco’s bottom lip and presses a kiss onto Draco’s kiss-swollen, wet lips. “It’ll be a best-selling book.” He says with the utmost confidence and Draco laughs nervously underneath him.

“We’ll see.” He mumbles but Harry shakes his head.

“It will. I know it.” He says and kisses Draco again before he can say anything else to doubt his own talent.


	3. Forgiveness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In [Chapter 30](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16143017/chapters/38544308) of "31 Days In The Life Of Draco Malfoy", Draco briefly reflects back on that moment, so many years ago, when he and Harry made their peace with each other. This is said moment. I hope I managed to do it justice.

Harry’s heart aches painfully as the memory of Dumbledore — _hit by Snape’s killing curse_ — falling over the railing of the Astronomy Tower all but threatens to overwhelm him. He sinks to his knees, curls the fingers of both his hands around the baluster and squeezes so tight that his knuckles turn white. His chest aches, his lungs protest the distinct lack of oxygen. _Shouldn’t have come here, too soon_ , he thinks and compels himself to breathe deeply. The sudden influx of air forces his rib cage to expand and causes his head to spin. He sways a little and blinks, channels all his attention into staring at the pitch-black night sky, dotted with millions of stars.

In his head, Harry slowly begins to count the brightest stars and manages to relax enough to pry one of his hands off the baluster. He draws his wand and with an elegant swoosh and a wordless spell, he summons his Patronus. As the mighty stag erupts from the tip of his wand, he relaxes that little bit more and slides into a sitting position. His other hand leaves the baluster also, and he shuffles around so that his back his turned to the night sky. His Patronus nudges his shoulder and coerces him to smile as he focuses on positive memories instead of all painful ones. He mentally pats himself on the back and congratulates himself for having managed to get through another panic attack.

It’s a clear, crisp night in early September. The night air is cool, but not overly so and he’s only been back at Hogwarts for a week. He rather regrets his decision to return for his NEWTs. It’s only been a little over seven days but he’s been fighting off panic attacks left right and centre. It makes paying attention to his classes rather tedious. It makes paying attention to just about anything rather tedious. So far, he’s managed to hide it from both Hermione and Ron, but he doesn’t think he’ll manage to keep up the charade for much longer, of that much he’s sure.

Madame Pomfrey has, without as much as batting an eyelid, provided him with a fortnight’s worth of Dreamless Sleep phials, but somehow, he finds wandering the halls of Hogwarts more soothing than simply downing a potion and waiting for forced sleep to claim him. The castle is still a mess and remnants from the battle linger everywhere he looks. On a recent trip to Diagon Alley, he stumbled across a spell book filled with useful repair spells and he’s taken to carrying that, along with the Marauder’s Map, around with himself on his nightly excursions through the castle. He’s fixed this and that and somehow, it feels like with each spell he casts, he manages to heal himself a little too. Harry has no doubt about the fact that the war has left him damaged beyond repair. Hermione’s suggested that he see a mind healer and even Ron thinks it’s not a bad idea. He agrees and he’s determined to try it, just as soon as he can find the courage to bare his damaged soul to a stranger.

The familiar sound of a set of unfamiliar footsteps ascending to the tower platform unsettles Harry and he his concentration wavers. His Patronus promptly vanishes and clasping his wand tightly, Harry tenses and holds his breath as a mop of white blond hair appears in his line of vision. The once haughty face, but now pale and weary, belonging to none other than Draco Malfoy comes into view and Harry stiffens inwardly. Malfoy stops halfway up the stairs, hesitates, and looks at him with what Harry can only describe as a mixture of fear, awe, astonishment, and apprehensiveness. A low voice, that sounds much like his own, chuckles deep down inside of him at the irony of the fact that out of all the people in the world he can read Malfoy’s facial expressions with frightening ease.

“I’m not going to hex you. You can come up here,” he says quietly, and without the slightest malice, as he sheathes his wand.  Malfoy doesn’t say anything, hesitates for another moment or two, then climbs the remaining steps with a soft, but exasperated, sigh.

“I didn’t think anyone would be up here this late, I just…I wanted to…I wanted to make my peace with…with everything that happened up here,” Draco speaks with a low murmur and his voice breaks several times as he forces his explanation for being here past his lips.

“Same here,” Harry smiles and the look of pure incredulity on Malfoy’s face tells him that this is the first time he’s seen Harry direct a genuine smile at him. Harry watches Malfoy’s face closely and notices how the corners of his lips twitch, as though he’s tempted to reciprocate the smile. Harry thinks it’s his aristocratic upbringing that is the reason for his schooled nonchalance. For a split-second, Harry sees the tiniest flicker of a smile in Malfoy’s eyes, but it’s gone with the next blink.

“Sleep doesn’t come easy these days,” Malfoy confesses as he approaches the railing. Harry watches him draw his wand, aim it at the night sky and mutter a spell. A moment later a constellation of stars appears and Malfoy flicks his wand to connect the bright dots in the sky.

Harry cranes his neck and stares at the constellation which rather looks like a big long snake. “What constellation is it?” He asks and Malfoy averts his eyes and looks down at him.

“The one I’m named after,” he responds and Harry grudgingly pulls himself up and stands.

“Draco,” He states and Malfoy flinches, almost as if struck by an invisible curse. Harry chuckles, realising that in all the years they’ve known each other he’s never once called Malfoy by his given name, “Draco,” Harry repeats, this time with a little more conviction.

Malfoy slowly turns to face him, sheathes his own wand, and purses his lips as he silently seizes him up. Harry lets him. The air between them is crackling with tension, but neither one of them is filled with hatred for the other. Somehow, Harry thinks, it feels like their animosity died when he vanquished Voldemort for good. Harry suddenly finds himself taking a deep breath and ever the impulsive and irrational Gryffindor, he extends his hand. “A fresh start?” he offers and it takes him every ounce of self-control, he has, to remain calm and collected at the utterly incredulous expression on Malfoy’s face. There is nothing poise about Malfoy right this very moment. He looks positively gobsmacked and his bright grey-blue eyes dart back and forth between Harry’s face and his outstretched hand.

Seconds tick by and Harry starts to feel just a little foolish. He has himself convinced that there’s no way Malfoy will accept his tentative offer of friendship, which he’s made on a whim when Malfoy does the unexpected. He extends a shaking hand and as it slips into Harry’s, Harry feels a jolt of electricity run up his arm and down his spine. They both tighten their hold and stare at each other as they slowly shake hands for longer than strictly necessary. The look on Malfoy’s face screams, _I’ve only ever wanted to be your friend_. He doesn’t say anything at all though and that’s fine by Harry because he doesn’t know what to say either.

They reluctantly withdraw from the handshake at pretty much the same time and sigh at the same time too. Harry doesn’t quite manage to control the low chuckle that erupts from his throat. Malfoy looks at him, then gives into the temptation and smiles. Harry allows awkward silence to descend upon them both and they simply stand next to each other for the longest time. Harry doesn’t quite know what to say and he thinks neither does Malfoy… _Draco_. He has no idea if they could actually manage to be friends but he also thinks that they have nothing to lose, nothing at all, if they try and fail. He doesn’t think it will be a particularly easy journey, but then again, Harry’s entire life hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park. He doesn’t quite know what an easy life is, but he does know how to deal with a bunch of impossible challenges. He’s got plenty of experience. A whole eighteen years of them.

For the first time in his life, he doesn’t have to look over his shoulder and obsess over a madman trying to kill him. He’s eighteen, broken but happy, and finally able to make his own choices. His first choice was to return to Hogwarts together with Hermione and Ron, his second choice is to try and befriend Draco Malfoy. He reckons half the wizarding world, including his closest friends and adoptive family, is going to think he’s finally lost the plot, but he really doesn’t give a damn.

“Forgive others, not because they deserve forgiveness, but because you deserve peace,” Malfoy… _Draco_ murmurs, breaking the spell of silence that has engulfed them. Harry briefly glances at the Draco constellation that’s still shining on in the sky and isn’t at all sure whether Draco is talking to him or mumbling to himself. “I don’t deserve your friendship,” Draco continues, confirming that he’s in fact been talking to Harry rather than just randomly mumbling to himself. “After what my father did to you, I don’t deserve your offer of friendship,” he adds and Harry scoffs.

“You aren’t your father. I think we both know but you tried to be but realised you weren’t,” Harry says and finds himself tempted to tell Draco that his mother saved his life and made it possible for him to kill Voldemort, but forces the urge down and decides to save that particular titbit for another time.

“You have a heart of gold. With you, everyone deserves a second chance,” Draco sighs and Harry can’t help but laugh, actually laugh. It takes him a moment to calm himself but when he does, he grins lopsidedly.

“Part and parcel of being a Gryffindor,” he jokes and Draco rolls his eyes. This time he gives into the twitch that pulls at the corners of his mouth and his smile is sincere. Harry thinks he likes the way Draco smiles, it’s oddly alluring.

“Idiot,” Draco jibes without the least bit of malice. Suddenly, all he is to Harry is a classmate and against all the odds, Harry thinks they’ll be the best of friends in no time. He doesn’t know why he thinks that but he just does.


	4. Style

Harry stretches luxuriously and contently, rolls onto his back and rubs the residual sleep from his eyes, then blindly gropes for his glasses. He shoves them onto his face, blinks a few times and stares up at the canopy of his and Draco’s matrimonial bed. He doesn’t quite know how late it is, but judging by the bright light that streams through a small gap in the heavy teal curtains, he’s slept later than usual. Which is fine, he supposes, it is Saturday after all and he’s not expected to make an appearance in the office for the next forty-eight hours or so. He reaches out for Draco’s body but frowns when his hand meets with cold sheets. It slightly sobers him up and his eyes dart around the room as he shuffles into a sitting position and leans back against several very plush pillows. It’s quite unusual for Draco to abandon their bed before he does and Harry knows for a fact that they don’t have any plans for today.

With a heavy sigh, Harry kicks the thin summer quilt back, swings his legs out of bed and puts his slippers on. He allows himself another stretch, stands up and heads for the bathroom, where he distractedly takes a leak, inattentively washes his hands, and half-heartedly brushes his teeth. He wearily rubs his palms over his cheeks and decides that he’s not in the mood to shave. A quick look in the mirror confirms that his stubble gives him a handsomely rugged look rather than an I-can’t-be-damned-to-take-care-of-myself-appearance. Upon his return to the bedroom, he casts a longing look at the bed and silently curses Draco for not being in it on the very day he wants him to be in it, wants to ravish him first thing after waking up and savour every single second of it. Sadly though, Draco isn’t in bed, let alone in the same room for him to do any of that.

“It’s my damn birthday, you sorry excuse for a husband!” He mutters under his breath and not bothered to change out of his boxers and t-shirt, he pulls the bedroom door open and stops dead in his tracks, a bewildered look on his face. A path of pure white rose pedals leads away from the bedroom door, down the corridor and by the looks of it down the stairs. He furrows his eyebrows, tentatively steps out into the hallway, and gripped by a sudden and almost overwhelming bout of curiosity he follows the path of rose petals to the landing. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and freshly-pressed orange juice as well as fried bacon wafts up the stairs and Harry’s stomach growls. Intrigued by what Draco is playing at, he heads downstairs and follows the strong smell of a full English breakfast into the kitchen.

When he pushes the door open, he freezes on the threshold and stares disbelievingly at the sight that greets him. A colourful array of muggle balloons, all with the number 30 emblazoned on it, float in the hair and the kitchen table is laden with so much food that Harry thinks he can hear its ancient legs creak in protest. The scent of coffee is almost overwhelming now and the sight of all the food makes his mouth water. It’s a breakfast worthy of a king, or maybe a Chinese emperor, and Harry’s stomach rumbles again. The large vase, filled with what appears to be thirty deep-red roses, momentarily distracts him but it by far isn’t the most breath-taking sight that greets him.

What truly makes his mouth water, and his cock stir with definite interest is his husband, who is gloriously naked and presently casually leaning back against the worktop with both his hands wrapped around his favourite Slytherin-green coffee mug. Harry licks his lips and hungrily leers at Draco, who smirks and winks at him. Harry’s heart skips a beat and his stomach does a weird backwards flip and as his eyes slowly drift down his husband’s well-toned body, his mouth goes dry and his eyes almost pop out of his head. Draco has tied an oversized red and silver ribbon around his fully erect cock and the massive bow bobs as he shifts his body weight from one leg to the other.

“Happy Birthday, gorgeous,” he whispers and Harry swallows hard.

He’s suddenly overcome with such an incredibly intense craving for that beautiful, beautiful man across from him. He wants to move towards him and wants to wrap him into the tightest embrace he’s ever given Draco in all the years they’ve been together. He also wants to apparate them upstairs into their bedroom and do what he’s been wanting to do all along; thoroughly ravish Draco Malfoy until they both forget who they are. Apparently, his intentions are dead obvious because Draco chuckles with knowing amusement, sets his coffee mug down and takes one, two, three, four steps towards him. He stops one step short of being close enough for Harry to reach and motions towards the table. “Breakfast is waiting for you, birthday boy,” he invites and Harry scowls, wants to tell Draco that he doesn’t care about the food, that all he wants is Draco, but he says nothing. Stupefied, and strangely obedient, he takes a cautious step into the room, then heads for his usual seat at the kitchen table. He wordlessly sits down and as he reaches for his own coffee mug, his hand trembles rather violently. It takes him every ounce of self-control to stop himself from dropping the mug and spilling its contents.

“Bloody hell Draco…,” he manages to force the words out of his throat and past his lips after several sips of the deliciously hot beverage. He applauds his own self-restraint, shudders when Draco chuckles with amusement and bites his bottom lip hard to hold back a moan when Draco sits down on his lap and wraps one arm casually around his shoulder.

“30 is a rather special one, let’s celebrate _in style_ ,” Draco whispers seductively and as his clear pewter eyes pierce him, Harry feels his mind go black. His heart rate quickens, his breathing is shallow and ragged and he can’t resist to place a hand on Draco’s leg and teasingly run it over Draco’s warm pale skin. Draco’s pupils widen a little, but otherwise, he’s the picture of nonchalance.

“Fuck…” Harry mumbles, no longer annoyed at the fact that he woke up to a cold, empty bed on the morning of his thirtieth birthday, but still not in full possession of all his facilities. Especially not those parts of his brain that control his speech and motor functions.

“Hm, yes, we’ll get to that later,” Draco smiles knowingly, “but breakfast first.”

When Draco offers him a spoonful of scrambled egg, Harry dutifully parts his lips and opens his mouth. He wordlessly allows Draco to feed him not only that one spoonful of scrambled egg but also accepts a hash brown, a rasher, a spoonful of lightly salted mushrooms, some baked beans, more scrambled egg, half a grilled tomato and a slice of toast with melted butter and a thick spreading of sweet mulberry jam.

As he flicks his tongue across his top lip to scoop up the remnants the bread crumbs, Harry can’t help but wonder if, from this day on, eating breakfast will ever be the same again. Sure, over the years they’ve spoon-fed each other desserts, sweets and chocolates but never once has Draco fed him an entire meal and the sensations of it are having a strange effect on Harry. He isn’t sure if it’s the fact that the food is unusually scrumptious this morning or if it’s Draco’s delectable nakedness or that blasted ribbon that’s still tied around his cock, but whatever it is, Harry desperately wants to hold on to that feeling.

“Merlin, Draco, you have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he whispers, fixes Draco with his most deadly and most vibrant gaze and resolutely rejects another offering of food. He watches intently as Draco’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard and what with his hand still resting on Draco’s thigh and perilously close to Draco’s erection, he can feel it twitch with excitement. His own cock reciprocates and a low grown escapes his throat as Draco shuffles in his lap.

“Oh, but I do,” he smirks and no longer willing to exercise any sort of self-restraint, Harry places a firm hand on the back of Draco’s neck and draws him close for a fervent, open-mouthed bruising kiss. Draco lets him ravish his mouth and Harry doesn’t stop there. He drags his lips over Draco’s jaw, grazes with his teeth, bites his neck and sucks at his earlobe. Draco groans, exposes his neck to Harry and Harry continues his onslaught, dragging his lips and tongue down Draco’s neck. He bites his collarbone, kisses, licks, and viciously sucks at the soft layer of skin and flesh just below, determined to leave a mark, determined to possess Draco. Once he’s satisfied with the deep-red, almost purple mark he’s left, he soothes it with plenty of salivae and the tip of his tongue, then continues his journey, needing to explore every single inch of exposed skin, even though he knows it better than he knows himself.

Draco doesn’t once fight him, doesn’t once protest, doesn’t even object when Harry growls, forces him to straddle his thighs and then with both arms tightly wrapped around Draco’s waist, he rises to his feet and carries Draco over to the kitchen counter. He pushes him against it and Draco easily adjusts his position, spreads his legs for Harry to stand in-between them and bracing himself on his arms, he leans back as far as possible.

Harry pauses for a moment, drinks in the wanton sight of his husband. They’re barely married a year and it’s his first birthday as Draco’s husband, and a round one too. “God, you’re divine.” He whispers, running his hands up and Draco’s firm abdominal muscles, across his chest, over his shoulders and down his arms. “You’ll be the death of me one of these days,” he murmurs, presses a kiss over Draco’s heart and looks up at him with so much love shining in his eyes that he thinks he’ll burst if he doesn’t say the words. “I love you, I love you so goddamn much, I fucking love you, Draco Lucius Malfoy,” he says with the utmost conviction and his voice quivers and breaks as tears threaten to fall. He blinks them back and when Draco carefully removes his glasses and places them aside, he squeezes his eyes shut and buries his face in Draco’s chest. In all the years they’ve been together he’s only ever said Draco’s full name twice, for the first time when they exchanged their wedding vows and for the second time just now. He feels Draco engulf him in a tight hug and responds by wrapping his own arms around Draco.

“I love you too, more than you’ll ever know, you silly fool,” Draco whispers into his unruly hair and Harry remains perfectly still, allows the words to wash over him and engulf him in a cocoon of warmth, safety and the knowledge that as long as they’ll have each other, his world will always be as right as rain.

He does eventually pull back and Draco naturally loosens his tight hold on Harry and returns to his previous position, arms braced behind him, leaning back, exposing himself to Harry.

Harry allows himself a long look at his husband, lusciously and alluringly irresistible. This time his heart doesn’t constrict with the irrepressible need to proclaim his love for Draco but his entire body responds to a much more primal need, the inextinguishable carnal desire to make Draco his all over again. He holds out his hand and is about to wandlessly summon a phial of lube from their bedroom when Draco places said phial in his hand with the sliest of smiles. Low laughter erupts from somewhere deep inside Harry, and with his thumb he expertly flicks at the cork, sending it flying across the countertop. It rolls and lands on the floor with a soft thud and Harry pours a generous amount of the warm, thick liquid into the palm of his hand. Draco almost automatically leans further back, bends his legs, and rests his heels on the edge of the countertop.

Licking his lips, Harry leans forward and engulfs Draco’s cock with his mouth, laps up the copious amounts of precome and lavishes the pulsing flesh with plenty of attention. At the same time, his lube-coated hand slides past Draco’s balls and to his entrance. He slathers it with prewarmed lube, pushes his index finger against the firm ring of muscles and persists, even when he’s met with initial resistance. He can feel Draco consciously trying to relax and slowly slides about half of his finger in and out of Draco, before he pushes deeper, thrusts his finger all the way inside. He wriggles it a little, manages to find that sweet, sweet spot deep inside Draco and positively delights at the mewling sound he manages to force out of Draco. He rubs his fingertip insistently against Draco’s prostate, feels him clench and relax around his finger, then withdraws only to add a second finger. He repeats his assault on Draco’s most private place all over again, then scissors him open.

He slowly withdraws his mouth from Draco’s cock, grins at the oversized red and silver ribbon, he hasn’t bothered to undo and looks up at Draco’s face. “Look at me,” he whispers and melts as Draco’s eyes flutter open and their intense gazes meet and lock. Harry pauses for a moment, then gently withdraws his fingers from inside Draco and pushes his boxer briefs down to his knees. He pours more lube onto his hand, which he wraps around his cock and strokes lazily to spread the thick, clear liquid all over. He licks his lips, pleased to note that he can still taste Draco on them and never breaking eye-contact, he moves to position his throbbing hard cock at Draco’s entrance. There he hesitates for a moment, waits for Draco’s small nod of confirmation — _a silly long-standing ritual of theirs_ — granting him permission and pushes inside. Despite the tightness, Harry isn’t in the least surprised that his cock slides inside with ease and he doesn’t stop until he finds himself fully sheathed inside Draco.

Draco’s expression is one of mild discomfort and great pleasure and Harry gives him another moment to adjust before he positions Draco’s legs around his waist, grabs his hips and firmly holding him in place, begins to fuck him, slowly but steadily. Draco’s legs lock tightly around his waist, giving him enough space to thrust freely but not enough space to withdraw completely and Harry is perfectly fine with that. He keeps his eyes locked on Draco and knowing that they both won’t last especially long, he quickly settles into a frantic rhythm of hard and fast thrusts. Draco spurs him on, demands more, _harder_ , _faster_ , and his entire body trembles with the effort it takes him to keep himself braced on his arms, to keep his legs wrapped around Harry’s body and to meet every single one of his thrusts. The sounds he makes are positively delightful, first, there are low shaky breaths, then heavy breathing combined with soft moans, panting, low muffled groans, rhythmic grunts and then he’s unashamedly and unrestrainedly shouting out what he wants, which his for Harry to come buried deep inside him.

Harry doesn’t possess the willpower or the judiciousness to be anything but bluntly obliging and his entire body tenses and spams as Draco’s repeated demands force his orgasm to erupt from the pit of his lower abdomen and spread out into the rest of his body. His legs shake with the effort it takes him to remain standing and his hold on Draco’s hips waivers as he thrusts deeply into him, burying himself with the selfish need to own Draco. He lasts another one, two, three thrusts, then shudders and shakes and gives into the force behind his climax as he loses himself sheathed deep inside Draco, who clenches around him, milking every single drop from him.

Harry is still riding out his own orgasm when Draco, undoubtedly pushed over the edge by the feeling of being filled with Harry’s seed, comes too, coating the ribbon and Harry’s stomach with thick lines of his come.

Draco’s legs fall off Harry’s waist and Harry slowly loosens his hold on Draco’s hips, falls forward and buries his face in Draco’s chest, trying to somehow control his breathing and his pounding heart.

Harry doesn’t move for the longest time, even though he’s painfully aware just how uncomfortable this position must be for Draco and, suddenly filled with awe-inspiring, raw love for his beautiful husband, Harry slowly withdraws his softening cock from Draco, who winces just a little. Harry forces himself to gather every bit of his strength together and concentrating on their bedroom, he apparates them upstairs and into bed. They land on top of each other, laugh and roll into a comfortable position that entails intertwining all their lips.

“That was a fucking marvellous birthday present,” Harry whispers and Draco chuckles. He leans in for a lazy kiss and Harry lets him, responds, sated and happy and only pulls away when Draco shifts, reaches underneath his pillow and produces an ivory-coloured envelope. He offers it to Harry, who raises a questioning eyebrow, but accepts it anyway. It’s not sealed and Harry easily manages to reach inside and a second later he holds two VIP tickets to the 2010 Quidditch World Cup in his now shaking hands. His eyes flicker between the tickets in his hand and Draco’s face and a broad grin spreads across his face, one that he can’t control, one that takes over his entire being, makes his heart flutter with excitement and anticipation and has him snuggling closer against Draco’s warm body.

“After that match, you tell me which is the better birthday present, hot sex in our kitchen or the wildest Quidditch match of the century,” Draco grins and Harry laughs, simply laughs.

“You are something else, Draco Malfoy, you really are something else.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I solemnly swear that this chapter in the life of Harry Potter was supposed to have some plot, but I may have mislaid it while writing. I, however, refuse to apologise.


	5. Owl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should issue a mild warning to let you know that Harry is upset about Hedwig's death in this chapter.

The familiar swooshing of a pair of very large wings draws Harry’s attention away from his book. He slowly lets it sink into his lap as he looks up to watch Draco’s strikingly beautiful brown-black and tawny-buff eagle owl descent from the skies and swoop down onto Draco’s outstretched arm. Duke Bubo Owlington — _the name still makes Harry laugh, though he tries his best to keep a straight face whenever Draco is looking at him because getting on the wrong side of one Draco Malfoy is really a rather stupid thing to do_ — gracefully folds his wings and hoots softly. Despite being rather large and heavy, Duke Bubo Owlington has the poise of a ballet dancer and elegantly balances himself on Draco’s arm, digging his talons firmly into the black dragonhide falconry glove for support.

Bubo’s black-brown feathery ear-tufts twitch a little as he crooks his heads sideways and fixes Draco with his warm and ever so expressive pumpkin-orange eyes and blinks several times. Harry watches intently as Draco gently pets Bubo’s head and strokes his back lovingly. Bubo hoots contently and Draco bends his elbow to bring Bubo closer to his chest. He leans forward, Bubo mirrors the gesture and nuzzles his face against Draco’s neck, stretches upward and delicately nibbles at Draco’s earlobe. Draco gives a soft laugh and Harry watches his lips move as he whispers to Bubo.

A sudden and sharp pang of intense longing viciously stabs Harry right in the chest and it hurts so much that he finds himself gasping for air and tears spring into his eyes, blurring his vision. His heart thumbs wildly — _he can practically hear blood passing through his ears, thump, thump, thump_ — in his chest and he feels dizzy and lost, so utterly lost. He squeezes his eyes shut and balls up his fists, clenching them as tightly as he possibly can. He forces himself to breathe through the pain, carefully and with calculated precision, wills his protective walls to erect themselves around him, saving him from having to relive the memory of the night he lost Hedwig. The pain is almost excruciating now and as he breaks out in a cold sweat, Harry briefly loses the fight and his swept away by a wave of intense agony. He manages to regain some control and harnessing every bit of his inner strength, he courageously forces the memory back, banishes it into the depths of his mind, into that dark place where he keeps all his memories of the war locked up. The lock is faulty, but he’s working on having it replaced, on exchanging it for a better one, a safer one.

It takes Harry another few minutes before he finally manages to calm down enough to attempt to open his eyes. He avoids looking directly at Draco and Duke Bubo Owlington and stares off into the distance instead, looking at nothing in particular. He leans back against the large trunk of the tree, he’s sitting under, pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms tightly around his legs, hugging himself. He hasn’t had a panic attack of this magnitude in quite some time, not since he’s started seeing a mind healer to help him deal with all the darkness that sometimes overwhelms him. It’s been a little over two years since the end of the war, three since Hedwig past away when she tried to protect him and Hagrid from the Death Eaters that were attacking them at the time.

“Are you okay?” Draco’s soft and mildly concerned voice gently cuts through the memory of his loss and he blinks once, twice, then focuses his gaze on Draco, who crouches before him. The worry in Draco’s eyes is plainly obvious and Harry sighs, suddenly feeling quite burnt out and fatigued. He doesn’t particularly feel like sharing — they never really talk about the war although Harry knows they probably should but it’s a depressing topic at the best of times — _but he also doesn’t want to lie to Draco and tell him that he’s fine when he isn’t_. In any case, he’s never been a good liar and Draco is perceptive enough to see right through his charade. He’s tried before, it didn’t work then and Harry doubts it will work now.

“Not really,” he admits hesitatingly and smiles wearily when Draco, without any hint of hesitation, slides into a sitting position and stretches his legs out, placing them on either side of him. He reaches out, forces Harry to stretch his own legs and Harry grimaces as his tense muscles protest. He moves anyway, moves for Draco, moves because he knows it’ll make him feel better. Draco guides his legs to rest on top of his own legs and runs his hands up and down Harry’s thighs in a firm but soothing motion. He quietly raises a questioning eyebrow at him and Harry exhales audibly.

“Where’s Duke Owlington?” he asks, drawing out the inevitable.

Draco lifts his right hand and points above them into the tree. “Up there,” he says with a shrug. “Why? Want him to join us?”

Harry shakes his head possibly a little too vehemently and Draco frowns with mild confusion. He most definitely doesn’t want Bubo to join them, not when he still feels this rough from the very vivid memory of Hedwig’s death. He hesitates for another few moments and realises that apart from making fun of Duke Bubo Owlington’s name — _he remembers calling it pompous and remembers Draco aiming a vicious stinging hex at him in response_ — he knows nearly nothing about the majestic bird, Draco loves so very much.

“Did you get Bubo to keep you company while at Hogwarts?” Harry asks and is surprised when Draco slowly moves his head from side to side, negating the question.

“Found him on the grounds when I was about eight. He’d fallen out of his nest and had a broken wing. I got mother to heal his wing, then talked her into keeping him. I tried to get one of our female owls to raise him but she wasn’t interested so I fed him for months, then built an elaborate set of wings with twigs and my bedsheet to teach him how to fly. Broke my ankle jumping off a tree branch, trying to show him how to use his wings…” Draco shares willingly and Harry’s chest constricts painfully as he listens. He thinks his confliction is probably showing on his face because Draco trails off and regards him with a strange expression on. “Are you jealous of my owl?” He suddenly wants to know and the absurdity of the question forces a chuckle out of Harry. It’s true though. He’s jealous. He’s jealous of the way Bubo acts when around Draco. It makes him miss Hedwig with every fibre of his being and today just watching them together was enough to almost drive him mad with sorrow.

“I had an owl once,” Harry whispers. He doesn’t quite know why, but he can’t bring himself to speak any louder. He hesitates for the longest time, fights with his inner demons and when Draco gently squeezes his thigh, he finally manages to say Hedwig’s name aloud. “Hedwig. She died. She died trying to protect me from Voldemort’s followers.” He mumbles and he can feel the tears burn his eyes. He blinks furiously, fights the urge to lose it. The last he wants to do is cry in front of Draco — _even though it wouldn’t be the first time and certainly wouldn’t be the last time eithe_ r. He doesn’t quite manage and before Harry knows it, hot tears spill over the rim of his eyes and his vision blurs.

“Oh, Harry,” Draco sighs softly and Harry feels him shuffle closer and engulf him in a tight hug. Harry sinks into the cocoon of warmth, sniffles and sneaks his arm around Draco’s waist, returning the awkward embrace. They sit like this for the longest time and eventually Harry manages to find the strength to calm himself. He slowly withdraws from their embrace, looks at Draco and is astonished to find nothing but love shining in his beautiful grey-blue eyes. “I miss her so much, sometimes,” Harry mumbles and spills his innermost secrets to Draco, “I mean, I’ve had my time to grief but she was my best friend. She always knew when I needed a bit of affection. She was so fiercely protective of me and it broke my heart when she took the killing curse for me…” Harry trails off and purposefully leaves out the fact that what Hedwig did for him was just what his mother did for him. Both loved him enough to sacrifice themselves for him and it hurts, it really bloody hurts to just think about it.

“I’m not sure what to say to that,” Draco admits quietly and his cheeks flush with mild embarrassment. It makes Harry smile, not because he is amused that Draco is embarrassed but because Draco so easily admits to not being perfect, to not knowing what to say, to being human.

“I’m sorry to be so morbid,” Harry sighs.

“Not morbid, just honest,” Draco says and exhaling softly he looks up and calls out for Bubo, who responds with a loud hoot, then swoops down and lands in the grass next to them both. He looks at them both and to Harry’s utter astonishment, Bubo chooses to nibble on his little finger instead of any part of Draco’s. “He likes you, you know, but you’ve been ignoring him, so he’s been keeping his distance,” Draco says softly, nodding his head towards his regal owl.

“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbles and slowly lifting his hand, he strokes Bubo’s head. He’s rewarded with a soft hoot and as Bubo fixes his vibrant pumpkin-orange eyes on him, Harry finds it makes him feel almost as good as when Draco hugs him to take away his pain and sorrow or when he hugs him whenever one of his nightmares torment him.

“Bubo, do you remember Hedwig, Harry’s owl?” Draco asks and Bubo looks back and forth between them, blinks once, twice, then hoots in affirmation. “He says he does, says she was a beauty, says all the male owls back at Hogwarts had a thing for her.”

Harry bursts out laughing and manages to startle Bubo, who reprimands him with a peak of his beak. It stings a little but it’s not nearly enough to make Harry stop laughing. If anything, it just makes him laugh harder. Bubo’s eyes narrow and he hoots with indignation. “Malfoy, damnit, how did you manage to turn Duke Owlington into an exact replica of yourself?” He teases and Draco’s eyes narrow and with pursed lips, he raises his hand and slaps Harry’s thigh hard enough to sting — _the muggle variant of a stinging hex_ , Harry thinks though he isn’t about to say that aloud. He forces himself to reign in his rather unrestrained amusement and reaching out he takes Draco’s hand. “Since when do you speak owl?” He asks with as much sincerity as he can muster.

“Since I thought it might cheer you up,” Draco says matter-of-factly. Harry rolls his eyes and doesn’t say anything to that. He likes this silly side of Draco, likes it very much, but he’s not about to tell Draco. They haven’t been together all that long, but somehow Harry just knows that Draco would take offence instead of seeing it as the compliment it’s supposed to be. Maybe in a few years, when they’ve had more time to heal, when they’ve grown accustomed to each other, maybe he’ll tell him then.


	6. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the lovely Lily Nox Potter-Malfoy makes a reappearance.

Harry stretches. He is beyond exhausted and every single muscle in his body aches, aches terribly. His shoulders are sore and his back stiff. The muscles in his arms throb from the exertion of having wrangled with an extremely uncooperative suspect on the way down to the Auror holding cells. As of last year, they are next to the Department of Mysteries and Harry can’t help but eye the place with a frown of intense disdain.

The fresh gash on his left cheek throbs too and distracts him enough from taking an unwanted trip down memory lane. His sprained ankle thrums painfully and he whines with every step he takes on his way to the lifts. He doesn’t quite remember the last time he’s had a proper night’s sleep, though he reckons it’s been at least 48 hours since he’s last closed his eyes for longer than ten minutes. His head pulses with a nasty headache, his vision is blurred and forcing himself to keep walking is a conscious effort that greatly encourages his headache to relentlessly hammer on and on. It’s late, very late, and not a single soul is around. The eerie silence all around is spooky, to say the least, and Harry shudders. He hates wandering around the Ministry at such a late hour, hates being stuck at work for hours and hours on end.

It’s moments like this, when he really despises his job, wants to barge into Kingsley’s office and hand him his resignation, wants to apparate home, grab Draco, and move them to another country, somewhere where nobody knows him and he doesn’t have to wrangle nasty criminals for a living.

It’s moments like this, when, drained of all his physical and mental resources, he wonders _why the_ _fuck_ he still bothers, why he doesn’t just retire. It’s been fourteen years since the war and he has enough money to last him several lifetimes over, as does Draco.

It’s moments like this, when, bone-tired, annoyed, hungry and in pain, he thinks his life is nothing but a joke and that he’d be much better suited to adopt a Quidditch team full of kids and become a full-time dad while Draco continues to woo the world with his best-selling novels.

“Gah!” Harry grinds his teeth, violently shoves every ounce of his annoyance into a dark corner of his mind, and pushes the button to call the lift. When the doors to the lift slide open, he steps… _limps_ inside. He hesitates momentarily and as his eyes sweep over all the different buttons, he is sorely tempted to return to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. There’s a folding cot in his office and he wants to sleep for a week, desperately. Except, he hasn’t seen Draco in three days and the intense craving to wrap his arms around the beautiful man, who stole his heart so many years ago, makes it easy to make up his mind about his destination. He presses the button for the Atrium, leans back against the lift wall, sighs, and closes his eyes for the short journey up. He’s half-asleep when the doors ping open and the automated, cool, female voice announces his destination.

Harry resolutely pushes himself away from the wall, steps out of the lift and sighs yet again. It’s only a short walk over to the Floo but tonight it feels like a mile. As Auror, he is exempt from the Anti-Apparition wards within the Ministry but he simply does not have the energy to focus on the short-distance-apparition. He knows any attempt would very likely result in him splinching himself and what with all the injuries he’s already sustained during tonight’s raid, he really doesn’t need anymore.

Another stint in St Mungo’s and he’s sure Draco will resolve to the use of an Unforgivable Curse to teach him a lesson he is sure he won’t forget until he takes his dying breath. The last time Draco had to answer a Fire-Call from a mediwitch in the Department of Magical Emergencies at three am in the morning, he verbally ripped Harry a new one and the memory alone makes Harry wince. That and his swollen ankle, which is heavily protesting having to carry his weight across the Ministry’s deserted Atrium, but Harry merely grits his teeth, clenches his fists, and continues moving. He loses his footing twice and nearly tumbles to the ground once but he does finally make it to the nearest Floo.

Without the slightest hesitation, he grabs a handful of Floo powder — _more than he really needs_ — tosses it into the fireplace and waits for the green flames to appear. He steps inside, shouts his destination and a moment later he rather ungracefully stumbles out of the fireplace in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place. The room is dark but the street light, shining in through the open curtains, provides him with enough light to find his way to the door. He pulls it open, wandlessly banishes the dust on the rug behind him and wearily glances between the open kitchen door and the staircase. A cup of tea would be nice, but after a moment of hesitation, Harry decides that he simply can’t be bothered to make himself a cuppa. It seems like way too much effort.

The climb up to the second floor, to his and Draco’s bedroom, is excruciating, to say the least, and Harry mumbles a series of rather colourful expletives as every single part of his body protests the late-night exercise. He does eventually make it to the top of the landing and leaning against the railing, he allows himself a short rest. “Fuck, I’m getting too old for this shit,” he mutters under his breath, runs his fingers through his unruly black hair and resolutely shrugs out of his bright-red Auror robes. He hangs them over the railing, sinks to the floor and battles with his black dragonhide boots in a bitter attempt to remove them. His sprained ankle asserts its disapproval, but he manages to distract himself from the pain with more colourful expletives.

Once the boots are finally off, Harry longingly stares down the hall and contemplates crawling into bed, before dismissing the idea as ridiculous. Instead, he closes his hands firmly around the bannister and focuses his last ounce of energy into getting back onto his feet. He awkwardly hobbles down the corridor and sighs with relief when his fingers finally curl around the cool doorknob to his and Draco’s bedroom. He twists, pushes the door open and quietly tiptoes inside only to catch his breath at the sight that greets him.

A conjured light sphere with a dim golden light sits on his nightstand. It illuminates Draco’s sleeping form and Harry thinks he looks like an angel, or at least how he imagines an angel might look like. He looks so stunningly beautiful that Harry momentarily forgets how to breathe…and walk. He simply stands in the room and drinks in the sight of his beautiful, beautiful husband, fast asleep on his side of the bed. He's lying facing the door and Harry swallows hard. There’s not a trace of worry anywhere on Draco’s face and he looks so much younger…and innocent. He looks like the boy Harry wanted to be friends with after the war but fell head over heels in love with instead.

 _Mine, mine, mine_ , Harry thinks possessively, glances at the framed photograph of him and Draco on his nightstand — _taken on their wedding day, just before their first kiss, without their knowledge and with an ordinary muggle camera_ — and feels his chest tighten. It swells with love and tears of joy spring into his eyes. He furiously blinks them away, tells himself not to be such a sap and moves towards the bed. He sinks onto his side of the bed, sits on top of the covers, and takes another long hard look at Draco. He notices that his hair is longer than usual. Longer and messier. He also notices the shadow of a stubble — _which is very unusual_ — and his long eyelashes and unable to resist Harry reaches out, tucks a stray strand of Draco’s silky-soft blond locks behind his ear and brushes the back of his hand along Draco’s cheek. The skin feels smooth and rough at the same time and Harry allows his hand to linger, presses his thumb against Draco’s velvety lips and leans in to kiss his temple.

“I’m home, my love,” he whispers, wipes a stray tear off his own face and smiles, “I’m so damn tired, I really just wanted to sleep in my office, but I missed you so bad, so bad, I just had to come home to you, _had to_. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately, you don’t deserve to sleep alone,” he murmurs, runs his fingers through Draco’s hair, “we should go away on holiday for a week or two. We should go somewhere where it’s just us, where I can show you every single day just how much I love you, how much you mean to me, how perfect you are, my beautiful, beautiful man, my sunshine, my life, my everything.” Harry knows he sounds mushy and ordinarily he wouldn’t be caught dead making such excessively sentimental declarations of love, but tonight he can’t stop himself.

“You know, Potter, it wouldn’t hurt you to say these things when I’m actually awake,” Draco mumbles, startling Harry, whose hand hovers in mid-air, torn between withdrawing it and continuing to run it through Draco’s hair. His over-tired mind urges him to continue and he sighs softly.

“How much of that did you hear?” He asks carefully and watches as Draco’s eyes slowly flutter open and blink several times before fixing Harry with a sleepy stare and a half-sly smirk.

“All of it,” Draco answers truthfully and Harry lets out an audible breath but doesn’t have the energy to actually feel embarrassed about his schmaltzy declaration of love.

“Oh well, it was all true, anyway.” He shrugs and Draco fixes him with a rather serious expression and shuffles into a sitting position.

“You look like shit.” He states matter-of-factly and Harry winces but doesn’t have any zest left inside of him to feel offended. Instead, he merely watches Draco push the quilt back, heave himself out of bed and obediently rises to his feet when Draco orders him into the bathroom. His ankle protests a great deal and he’s utterly grateful when Draco — _no questions asked_ — offers a supporting shoulder.

Once inside the bathroom, Draco swooshes his wand at the large bathtub and fills it with water. Another spell heats the water and a pointed look tells Harry all he needs to know. He gingerly strips out of the remaining bits of his Auror uniform and with Draco’s help he sinks into the hot water and sighs with relief as his tired muscles almost immediately begin to relax. He leans back, closes his eyes, and allows Draco to lavish him with attention. He is vaguely aware that Draco cleans the gash on his face and heals it with a wandless healing charm.

When Draco lathers his hair with shampoo, Harry cracks a tired eye open, glances up at Draco, raises his eyebrow in a silent question and sighs when Draco shakes his head.

“You’re half-asleep as it is.” Draco chuckles, massages his scalp and Harry lets out a low and indecent moan. If he wasn’t so damn tired, he’d drag Draco into the tub, clothes, and all, for a leisurely shag, but in his current sleep-deprived state he simply cannot muster the energy required to do so.

The bath is short and once Draco is satisfied that his hair — _along with the rest of him_ — is clean, he orders him out of the tub. Harry wants to protest, wants to stay put and sleep, but grudgingly heaves himself out of the tub and seats himself on the edge. He makes no effort to attempt to dry himself off and half expects Draco to blast him with a drying charm. Draco, however, surprises him by reaching for a fluffy towel and Harry purrs contently when Draco rubs him dry.

“You are the best husband ever.” He mumbles and Draco’s amused chuckle makes him smile.

“Naturally.” He responds and Harry rolls his eyes at him but says nothing. He simply lets Draco finish towelling him dry and flings his arm around Draco’s shoulder to better hobble back to the bed. He haphazardly pushes the quilt aside, flops down, shuffles into a horizontal position and with one eye already asleep he watches Draco summon a tub of healing salve and an ordinary muggle compression bandage. The moment Draco begins to spread the healing salve on his battered ankle, Harry groans unashamedly as the throbbing pain slowly subsides. He lazily observes as Draco fastens the compression bandage around his ankle but is, halfway through, distracted when a furry black mop with green eyes jumps onto the bed and settles on his chest.

“Hey there, Lils.” Harry lazily reaches out and pets their cat. She purrs contently and rubs her cold nose against his naked chest. He shudders and is fully aware that he’s starkers but can’t be bothered to care. Besides Lils has been treated to more than one eyeful of both him and Draco in the nude.

“Her name is Lily Nox Potter-Malfoy,” Draco growls, correcting him instantly. Harry merely laughs.

“Yeah, not gonna happen. That’s a mouthful and you know it.”

“It’s her name!” Draco protests and smacks his thigh. Harry gently prods him in the side with his uninjured foot and Draco glares daggers at him.

“You know I’ll always call her Lils.” He winks at Draco, entirely unfazed by the icy stares he’s getting.

“And that’s exactly the reason why she never listens to anything I say.” Draco huffs and crosses his arms over his chest in annoyance. Harry doesn’t respond, but instead shoots their cat a meaningful look and nudges her off his chest. She meows, pats down the bed, jumps over his leg and straight into Draco’s lap, where she curls into a black ball of fur and purrs loudly.

Harry shuffles, rests back on two pillows and folds his arms underneath his head. “I think she rather likes her daddy.” He smiles and watches as Draco absent-mindedly pets Lils. Harry knows he wants to object, wants to protest but before Draco even manages to mutter the first syllable of his complaint, Harry wandlessly turns off the light in their bathroom and urges Draco to come to bed. Draco feigns unwillingness but moves anyway. He leaves Lils at the foot of their bed, elegantly crawls over Harry and curls up at his side. Harry instinctively wraps a protective arm around his husband, scoots a bit closer and with a lazily flick of his hand, he wandlessly banishes the light sphere. Darkness settles around the room and as Draco covers them both with the quilt, Harry is already half asleep.


	7. Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Duchess_of_Strumpetness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duchess_of_Strumpetness) and [Vixens_thoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vixens_thoughts/pseuds/Vixens_thoughts) who both told me they adore Drunk!Draco.

“I’mma gonna marry _The Chosen One_!” Draco exclaims loudly and with the biggest possible grin plastered on his face as he stumbles towards Harry. His feet entangle themselves, he flails and threatens to take a spectacular drive to the floor.

Harry’s Seeker and Auror reflexes kick in instantly, he reaches out, grabs a handful of Draco’s belt and skinny jeans and both holds him up and pulls him close. Draco instantly responds by throwing his arms around Harry’s shoulders and buries his face in Harry’s neck, breathing hotly. Harry shudders, slips an arm around Draco’s waist and steadies him properly. He takes an expert step back, sits down on one of the bar stools, lining the bar, and spreads his legs to allow Draco to comfortably stand between his thighs.

“I’mma gonna marry _The Chosen One_!” Draco proclaims again, this time louder than before, drawing a few surprised and amused looks from other, nearby patrons. Harry grins lopsidedly but is secretly grateful for the fact that they’re in a gay nightclub in Muggle-Brighton instead of London. The last he needs is permanent proof of Draco’s drunken escapades splashed across the front page of The Daily Prophet. Draco, and he knows this for a fact, would never forgive him for that.

“Harry, d’ya hear me?” Draco pierces him with a look of complete and utter indignation and Harry smirks and nods.

“Sure did. You ask him then?” He queries and Draco scoffs, waives his hand wildly around, sways and without a conscious thought, Harry tightens his hold on Draco. He can’t help but marvel at how Draco is so clearly inebriated, sauced beyond believe, yet manages to talk this coherently. In the beginning, he used to wonder whether Draco was merely acting drunk but after a few very hungover mornings-after — _with no recollection of the night before_ — Harry has resigned himself to the fact that Draco is a very strange drunk pureblood wizard indeed.

“Please!” Draco rolls his eyes. “He’s gonna ask me. _The Chosen One_ is gonna ask me!”

“You do realise that I am _The Chosen One_ , right?” Harry laughs.

Draco chortles, pushes him back again against the bar and hollers at the waiter, demands to be served another colourful cocktail concoction. Harry thinks he should probably take Draco home, or at the very least restrict his alcohol intake, but he presently can’t bring himself to do either. There’s something about Draco drunk on muggle cocktails — _he holds his Firewhisky without any difficulties but it’s muggle drinks that are his undoing_ — that intrigues him immensely. This carefree, laid back, somewhat silly, outgoing, and entirely unrestrained version of Draco, well Harry doesn’t get to see it very often and he likes it very much. Draco is honest, funny, and humorous, if a little demanding, and it intoxicates Harry more than all the alcohol in the world ever could. The Draco he knows — _and loves_ — is careful, calculated and poised. He is not at all unrestrained, or rarely so, and even if it’s only when they’re alone, far away from prying eyes. Even when Draco does let go, he always manages to hold some part of himself back, always conscious of who is watching, conscious of who he is, who he was, who they are. Sober-Draco hates public displays of affection with a passion, but Drunk-Draco loves them above all.

“Of course, you are, Harry! You are _my_ _Chosen One_. And you’re gonna ask me to marry you someday, I just know it.” Draco laughs, leans back and Harry slips a second arm around Draco’s waist, secures his very drunken boyfriend without actually holding him captive and thus saving him from finding himself on the floor. Gravity is not Drunk-Draco’s friend, not that he seems to care much. He eyes Draco with mild suspicion and momentarily wonders whether Draco is still aware that Harry, and therefore by extension The Chosen One, are one and the same person. He itches to ask again but doubts that he would get a coherent answer out of Draco. He is distracted when Draco repeatedly nudges his shoulder and tells him to pay for his drink, which the bartender has just placed on the bar next to Harry.

Harry sighs, keeps one arm securely wrapped around Draco’s waist and awkwardly reaches into his jeans pocket with the other. He pulls out a ten-pound-note, hands it to the bartender and informs him to keep the change. Draco squeals giddily, reaches for the hurricane glass that contains his purple cocktail-concoction, wraps his lips around the blue straw and sucks. Harry’s mouth instantly goes dry and his mind treacherously supplies him with an abundance of absolutely inappropriate images of Draco going down on him. He squirms uncomfortably on the bar stool as he watches Draco drink his cocktail and wonders whether he’s being this suggestive on purpose. Draco’s quirked eyebrow confirms that yes, he is, and Harry almost jumps a mile out of his seat and Draco squeezes his half-hard cock through his jeans.

“Fuck, Draco.” He growls, swats his hand away and easily restraints it behind Draco’s back when he attempts another grope.

“Yes, please, Harry, _fuck me_.” Draco whispers and Harry groans, wonders how their conversation has gone from him apparently planning a marriage proposal to Draco demanding to be fucked.

“You’re three sheets to the wind.” Harry sighs. He knows Draco won’t remember any of this tomorrow morning, knows that he could very easily take advantage of Draco and even though his duplicitous mind urges him to do so, he resists.

“And that stops us from fucking how?” Draco asks with such a serious expression that it’s actually comical. Harry says nothing, just quietly takes Draco’s challenging stare, and watches him finish off his cocktail. He’s quite sure that these colourful concoctions are supposed to be enjoyed at a much slower pace, but he’s tried — _and epically failed_ — to get Draco to slow down before. He is most definitely not going to try again. “You don’t want me!” Draco suddenly snaps, slams the empty cocktail glass onto the bar with such venom that he Harry thinks it’ll shatter into a thousand shards. It doesn’t though. “You don’t want to fuck me. You don’t fancy me anymore!” He wails, sticks his bottom lip out in a heart-wrenching pout and crosses his arms over his chest. Harry firmly tries to ignore the pitiful glances he gets from a nearby couple and reminds himself not to blush with embarrassment. He’s not sure he can keep up with this conversation. Marriage proposals, public groping, illicit offers of sex and now _this_? His head throbs painfully and his Auror instincts remind him to keep vigilant, one wrong word and he knows Draco will storm off in a huffy strop.

“Likely. That’s why I’m sat here with a hard-on because I don’t fancy you.” Harry responds, but keeps his voice down, conscious of who might be listening to their conversation. Unlike Draco, he doesn’t want to announce his erection — _or his intention to have sex_ — to the entire place.

Draco’s brow furrows, he leans a bit closer, wraps both his arms around Harry’s neck and wriggles between Harry’s thighs. Harry shuffles a bit, instinctively pulls Draco a little closer and once again secures both his hands around Draco’s lithe waist. He gasps when Draco thrusts forward and grabbing Draco’s hips firmly, Harry holds on but doesn’t stop him from what he’s doing, lest Draco has another drunken temper tantrum.

Harry sighs softly. He can smell a mixture of alcohol and sweet juices on Draco’s breath and when Draco leans in to steal a kiss, he shamelessly lets him, slips his hands underneath Draco’s white button-down shirt, and tickles the soft, velvety skin of his lower back. Draco squirms in his embrace, giggles, draws away from the kiss but presses his forehead against Harry’s.

“Dance with me, sexy stud.” He whispers and a shudder runs down Harry’s entire spine. He does not dance. He absolutely does not dance. Draco knows that. Except Draco is too drunk to be rational and Harry’s sober mind unhelpfully supplies him with several visual scenarios of what might happen if he turns down Draco’s request to dance. He groans and after several minutes of hesitation, during which he wages a battle with himself, he finally gives in, slides off the barstool and captures Draco’s lips in a languid kiss.

“Let’s dance.” He murmurs against Draco’s lips and allows him to guide them to the dancefloor. He does have to steady Draco several times, but they manage to make it into the basement of the nightclub, which is one massive dancefloor. The stairs are a bit of a struggle, but Draco manages without taking a tumble or worse — _Merlin forbid_ — dragging any of the other patrons down with him.

Draco drags him right to the centre of the dancefloor and the moment he begins to dance, Harry, regrets giving in. Draco moves so utterly salaciously that Harry thinks just watching will have him explode into his boxers. He tries to pull Draco closer, tries to keep him from putting on too much off a show, but to no avail. It would appear that now that Draco got his wish, he’s lost every last bit of inhibition.

 _You should be illegal_ , Harry thinks to himself, slides both arms around Draco’s waist and pulls him close. He struggles to consolidate how Draco has trouble to walk and remain standing upright but manages to dance like this in his drunken state. Draco grinds against his leg, rubbing and thrusting and Harry bites his lips, suppresses a wanton moan. His restraint only serves to push Draco further and before Harry knows it, Draco has turned around in his arms and his grinding his arse against his groin, moving up and down, pushing back, thrusting. This time Harry doesn’t quite manage to keep that moan inside and placing both hands on Draco’s hips, he pulls him as close as possible and thrusts against his arse. His mind floods with images of them both fucking…and making love…and fucking and Harry’s erection twitches painfully in its tight confines.

He flushes a deep shade of crimson and is grateful for the low lights inside the nightclub and the fact that Draco can’t see him right now. He desperately wants to break the statute of secrecy, wants to apparate them both out of here and back to London, but he knows better than to attempt anything so foolish. It would cost him his job and his reputation, not to mention Draco’s. So instead he bites Draco’s neck, sucks sharply, and leaves a vicious love bite. Draco merely groans, tilts his head, and offers him his neck. Harry lavishes it with kisses, nips, bites and licks and leaves another two love bites. He momentarily loses himself in the moment, grabs Draco’s cock through his skin-tight jeans and squeezes, massages the hard flesh insistently.

“Hm, yes, _fu-uuck_ , Harry, so good, don’t stop.” Draco groans and despite the loud music, the pounding rhythm and his own throbbing cock, Harry catches every single word. Like cursed fire it sends him spiralling right out of control and closing his hand around Draco’s wrist, he squeezes so tight that he knows he’s hurting Draco but he doesn’t care. Harry drags him off the dancefloor, drags him up the stairs and outside the club where he continues to drag him down the road until they pass a dark alley. He pushes Draco into the alley, roughly shoves him up against the brick wall and kisses him hotly, desperately and with little regard as to who might walk past.

Draco seemingly doesn’t care either, for Harry can feel him using both hands as he fumbles with Harry’s belt and trousers. In his drunken state it takes him longer to undo the belt buckle, pop the button and unzip the trousers but he manages and the second Draco pulls his painfully hard cock free of its constraints, Harry sighs with relief. He thinks that Draco intends to give him a hand job and eagerly thrusts into Draco’s loose fist. He is wrong, very wrong. Draco wriggles for space, slides to his knees and swallows almost all of him. Harry bucks his hips, groans, steadies himself on the brick wall in front of him and lets Draco suck him off right there in that blasted alleyway where anyone could catch them.

It’s over in less than two minutes — _or so it feels_ — but even as Draco carefully tucks him back in, rises to feet and lips his swollen lips, Harry can’t help but think it’s the best blowjob he’s ever had. He draws Draco into a languid kiss, pulls him flush against his still trembling body, closes his eyes and focuses on his bedroom in Grimmauld Place. They vanish in an instant and as they land in the centre of the room, Draco breaks free and stumbles for the bathroom, mumbling something about desperately needing to take a leak.

Harry takes two steps towards their massive four-poster bed, leans against one of the posts, rests his head back and closes his eyes. “Fuck, yes, I’m definitely gonna marry you someday.” He mumbles to himself, then giggles stupidly and thinks that he isn’t The Chosen One, Draco is.


	8. Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking you right back to the very beginning, hop on the Hogwarts Express with me.

With a sigh, Harry lowers his potion’s book into his lap, glances around the courtyard and tries to shuffle into a somewhat more comfortable position. It’s a fruitless attempt which he soon gives up on. He’s sitting on a stone and leaning against a stone and no amount of moving around will make the windowsill softer or the stone arch more inclined to provide comfort. The courtyard is pretty much deserted, except for the one or other student occasionally hurrying by on their way to wherever. Harry is painfully aware that the library or the Gryffindor common room would be a much more sensible place for him to try and study but he’s not feeling very sensible today.

It’s early November and it’s cold. Harry wonders when it’s going to start snowing, he misses winter’s fluffy white cold, misses the way it covers everything until new life and new beginnings are ready to sprout from the depths of the earth. He emits a long, deep, audible breath, snaps the potion’s book closed and pulls his knees up and closer to his chest, deciding to give up on trying to make any sense of what differentiates a _Calming Draught_ from the _Draught of Peace_. They both relieve anxiety and calm the drinker’s nerves and to Harry, that’s one and the same damn thing. He knows he could ask Hermione, or investigate in the library, but he feels neither like listening to an hour-long rant from his best friend nor energetic enough to drag himself to the library. For a split second, he sorely misses the Halfblood Prince’s potions book, but it also reminds him of a moment when he let darkness consume him, when he cast a spell, he didn’t know anything about, when he very nearly killed the one person, he’s recently become very close friends with.

He pushes the memory aside and startles when a mild warming charm hits him, engulfing him in a cocoon of comfortable warmth. He looks up and finds Draco, wrapped in a warm winter coat and scarf standing in front of him.

“You’ll catch a nasty cold.” He reprimands softly and Harry shrugs.

“Pepper-Up.” He mumbles, ignores Draco’s eyeroll and the piercing glare Draco fixes him with.

“Reckless idiot.” He says and Harry huffs out a laugh, isn’t even annoyed. Draco isn’t wrong. He is a reckless idiot, has an impressive record of accomplishment to prove it too. He sweeps his eyes across the empty courtyard, looks at Draco and watches him take a seat across from him. He stretches his legs, wriggles his toes, and thoroughly delights in Draco’s warming charm. His movement reveals the potions book in his lap and Harry ignores Draco’s sly grin, but braces himself for the taunt he knows is coming. “You and potions, that’s a lost cause, you do know that, don’t you, Potter?”

“Ignorance is bliss.” He replies, throws a lopsided grin at Draco, and nudges him with his foot when he rolls his eyes again.

“For your information, a calming draught is only administered when someone has suffered a shock, trauma, or emotional outburst, while draught of peace cures simply anxiety and agitation. It’s useless in the treatment of shock, trauma, or emotional outburst, wouldn’t even take the edge off.” Draco offers the explanation that’s been eluding Harry for the last hour.

“Thanks.” He mumbles, grateful for the clarification but momentarily distracted by a pair of Ravenclaw boys walking across the courtyard. They walk closer than strictly necessary and upon taking a closer look, Harry realises that they are in fact holding hands. Halfway across the courtyard, one of the boys throws his head back laughing and Harry watches as the other boy shoves his boyfriend playfully. They tussle for a bit and when they eventually stop and stand facing each other, faces flushed and eyes locked, Harry finds himself holding his breath. Transfixed, he watches them share a brief, but heated, kiss, then scurry off, out of sight. He shuffles, forces himself to breathe normally and slowly turns to look at Draco, who regards him with a most curious and mildly amused expression.

“That was hot.” Draco breathes and blinks. Harry, despite the warming charm, shivers. He notices the slight flush on Draco’s cheeks and wonders if it’s because of those two Ravenclaw lovebirds openly snogging each other without the slightest care in the world. Or is it because of the cold? He’s painfully aware that Draco’s only cast one warming charm and that warming charm snuggly keeps him warm and not Draco. Not quite trusting himself to speak, Harry quirks an eyebrow at Draco, poses a silent question.

Draco looks at him for the longest time, as though he’s weighing up his options, then sighs softly and finally shrugs. “I like watching boys kiss. I like kissing boys.” He says softly and Harry doesn’t really know what to do with that information. Draco offered it up so easily, as though it isn’t a big deal to him at all, and Harry feels confused.

“You’re gay?” He asks, flushes a bit at the bluntness of his own question and bites his bottom lip to stop himself from asking any more inappropriate questions.

Draco chuckles and Harry finds the sparkle of mirth in his grey-blue eyes utterly distracting.

“You followed me this closely in our sixth year and you didn’t know?” He teases and Harry frowns, but admits truthfully, albeit only to himself, that no, he didn’t know anything about Draco’s sexual orientation nor does he remember ever consciously thinking about it. Somehow the thought never even occurred to him. Then again, he was rather preoccupied trying to stop a megalomaniac Dark Lord from taking over the Wizarding World.

“Well, you didn’t exactly slip off to have illicit sexual encounters, did you now?” He counters more bravely than he actually feels. They have never had quite such an intimate conversation before.

“Ah but I did,” Draco grins, winks at him and Harry’s breath hitches up a notch or two — _though he doesn’t know why_ — when Draco suddenly leans forward, as though he’s about to share a big secret, “I just didn’t leave the dungeons for those illicit sexual encounters, so you never knew.” He whispers and Harry shudders, thinks that Draco is way too close for his sanity. He tries to bring a bit more distance between both their faces but only manages to knock his head into the stone arch behind him. He yelps, rubs the back of his head, which feels a little tender, and blinks a few times to fight the dizzy spell that’s making his head spin uncomfortably.

“Alright there, Potter?” Draco teases. Harry hmpfs under his breath and fights the urge to tell Draco — _again_ — to stop calling him Potter, even though he knows Draco only does it to get a rise out of him.

Despite their tentative, and very unlikely, friendship, they still enjoy trying to provoke each other, though all their taunts and insults lack bite and are merely playful in nature. Draco’s tongue is still as sharp as ever, but Harry’s come to appreciate it more than anything because Draco, for all his faults and all the mistakes he’s made before the war, always speaks the truth. Hermione and Ron — _and everyone else who returned to Hogwarts to catch up on all the things the small matter of having to vanquish Voldemort made them miss out on_ — can’t quite seem to wrap their heads around their unusual alliance and Harry has grown tired of trying to explain it. He’s tired of a lot of things, most of all pointless debates, and largely ignores everyone who keeps telling him to stay away from Draco.

“Honestly, I’m a bit surprised that you didn’t know. I’ve not exactly kept it a secret.” Draco draws him out of his quiet contemplation of their friendship and Harry shrugs, not entirely sure what he’s expected to say to that. The last two months have been a steep learning curve for him. For the first time ever, he doesn’t have to constantly look over his shoulder, doesn’t have to worry about being at the top of somebody’s hit list. It’s taken seven years but Harry’s determined to make his last year at Hogwarts the most boring and normal year ever. One last attempt at being an innocent teenager, before he finds himself swept up in the madness of adult life, becoming an Auror and trying to somehow find his way in the world.

“Sorry, I was a bit busy trying to get rid of an omnipotent wanker.” Harry shrugs.

“It’s time for your sexual awakening, Harry Potter.” Draco chirps. Harry rolls his eyes and kicks at Draco, who dives off the windowsill with decidedly too much gracefulness. “You are the wizarding world’s hero, I reckon finding somebody willing to shag you is the least of your concerns. Potions however…,” Draco pauses and dramatically places his hand above his heart, “I feel I should sacrifice myself as your willing lab partner to save you from certain doom. Weasley and Granger are too busy snogging each other’s faces off to stop you from failing and not even being Slughorn’s pet will get you a passing grade on your NEWTS.”

“Stuff it, Malfoy,” Harry growls with pretend annoyance, lungs at Draco and manages to grab a fistful of Draco’s scarf. They playfully tussle about for a few minutes, neither quite managing to get the upper hand, but still getting breathless in the process. Somewhere along the way, Draco manages — _or maybe Harry lets him, he isn’t quite sure_ — to shove him up against the wall and uses his own body weight to keep him there. Harry’s breath hitches a little when Draco leans closer than he has to and pins him down with his piercing grey-blue eyes.

“Does the great Harry Potter prefer boys too then?” He drawls and Harry swallows hard, bites his tongue and flushes hotly before he can exercise enough self-control. “Except for your taste in fashion, I whole-heartedly approve,” Draco smirks, releases him, and casually rearranges his clothes. Harry blinks, watches Draco reach into his winter coat and produce a chocolate frog, which he quite unceremoniously stuffs into his mouth. Feeling rather flustered and utterly indignant, Harry splutters and huffs, stumbles over a haphazard denial and is about to stomp off when Draco’s hand closes around his wrist and stops him from leaving. He tries to yank at it but Draco’s grip is firm and Harry gives in with a melodramatic sigh. “Boys, girls, both…who cares?” Draco says quietly and with the sincerest expression, Harry thinks he’s ever seen him wear. “You’re entitled to like who you like and anybody who tells you otherwise isn’t worth a second of your time,” he adds and Harry finds himself nodding.

“I am…thank you,” he mumbles, doesn’t meet Draco’s eyes and is grateful when Draco releases him.


	9. Laugh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love me some protective!Harry, so I decided to write some.

“What are you doing up already?” Harry queries as he enters the kitchen, fully dressed in his Auror uniform. He’s absolutely dying for a strong, hot cup of coffee and not at all in the mood to head to work where a bunch of paperwork is undoubtedly eagerly awaiting his arrival. Draco ignores his question entirely and with a shrug, Harry grabs his preferred mug, fills it to the brim with freshly brewed coffee from their Muggle coffee machine and sits down across from Draco at the kitchen table.

He snatches Draco’s half-eaten buttered slice of toast, takes a large bite and studies Draco with scrutiny. “Seriously, what’s the matter?” He asks, sensing that something other than Draco not being a morning person is amiss. When Draco looks up at him with bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes, Harry sucks in a sharp breath and automatically sits up straighter. If there’s one thing that Draco doesn’t do, then it’s cry. Well, he does, but he’s always careful to do it when he thinks Harry can’t see him do it or doesn’t know about it.

It sometimes bothers Harry that Draco won’t openly show his weaknesses, that it takes plenty of persuasions — _and sometimes downright threats_ — to get Draco to open up, but he’s never actually sat Draco down and had a conversation about it. Harry is quite aware of the fact that the most sensible course of action would be to have an honest heart to heart with Draco, but he doesn’t feel the need to. He can read Draco like a book. There’s no need for Draco to be more transparent because he already is. There’s no way Draco would ever manage to keep even a single secret from him, for that Harry knows him too well.

It sometimes scares Harry just how well he knows Draco, how easily he can read him and how he can pick out even the subtlest differences in his mood. All he needs to do is look at the way Draco behaves and listen to all the things Draco doesn’t say. Harry isn’t sure if their connection stems from the fact that he spent all his time at Hogwarts watching Draco — _quietly studying him from a distance, studying him to the point that everyone thought he had a troublesome obsession_ — or if it stems from the fact that he’s madly in love with the man. What he, however, is absolutely sure about is that something big must have happened for Draco to make it blindingly obvious that he’s upset…hurt.

“Out with it.” Harry pushes, briefly wishing he was at least semi-proficient at Legilimency. He knows Draco is bloody brilliant at it, is a rather accomplished Occlumens also, but unlike Draco, Harry simply doesn’t have the patience for it. Reading a person’s mind is not his forte, never has been and never will be. Reading a person’s behaviour, however, that’s a skill he’s got down to an art. Where other Aurors resolve to Veritaserum to get suspects to confess, Harry manages to rely entirely on his ability to read and correctly interpret somebody’s body language and facial expressions. He sees what others don’t and he’s mighty proud of his skill.

“Eight fucking years, Harry, it’s been eight years, and yet they still won’t give me a break.” Draco finally speaks. His voice is as rough as sandpaper and Harry’s chest tightens painfully. He sets his coffee mug down on the table, reaches out and takes both of Draco’s hands into his own, squeezes them tightly.

“I don’t know who _they_ are, but I gave you a break a long time ago,” he reminds Draco, “and I should matter more than anybody else.” He continues, subtly reminding Draco of that fateful night up on the Astronomy Tower, when they both jumped over their own shadows and put their differences aside. Said memory usually manages to at the very least coax a smile out of Draco, but today Harry is unsuccessful in his attempt to cajole Draco’s lips into curling upwards.

“You matter more than anybody else, you know you do. I really don’t want to care about this, but I worked so hard, two years of blood, sweat and tears, only for this. It’s not fair!” Draco whispers and sighs deeply. Harry’s heart contracts painfully and he wants to stop Draco from pulling his hands away, from breaking their connection, but he doesn’t. Instead, he waits patiently and watches Draco summon a balled-up copy of _The Prophet_. Draco unfurls it, smooths it out and wordlessly slides it over to Harry. A very old photograph of Draco and his parents — _taken just days after the war_ — in the Ministry Atrium glares up at him. Next to it is another much more recent photograph of Draco, smiling broadly — _if a little nervously_ — showing off his first book in front of Flourish and Blotts on Diagon Alley. The front-page headline instantly makes Harry’s blood boil and he coils his fist around the paper — _rag_ — and forces himself to read on. He needs to know what has Draco upset enough to allow Harry to actually catch him in the act of crying.

* * *

> **Ex-Death Eater’s Pathetic Attempt At Redemption**
> 
> _Pureblood Prejudice_ , Ex-Death Eater Draco Malfoy’s pathetic attempt at becoming a writer, is nothing but a mediocre endeavour to curry favours and redeem the soiled Malfoy name. The Malfoys have never made any secrets of their complete disdain and lack of respect for Muggle-born wizards and witches. For the heir of the Malfoy family fortune to therefore suddenly turn around and renounce all those twisted and warped ideologies, ingrained into him from a very young age on, is utterly preposterous and downright absurd. It is, without the shadow of a doubt, merely a well-thought-out plot to line his own pockets with yet more gold, while at the same time trying to lull everyone into a false sense of security. People like Draco Malfoy don’t change, they simply don’t, and anyone who believes that they do is foolish, not to mention insane. To honour our Saviour’s hard work in vanquishing the Dark Lord, and bringing peace back to the wizarding world, I can only urge you not to be stupid enough to fall for this twisted little scheme of a former Slytherin and avid follower of the Dark Arts.
> 
> _Senior News Correspondent Kirk Brown_

* * *

Harry’s reaction to the article is much the same as Draco’s, except he doesn’t merely ball up the paper, he sets it on fire with a wordless wandless, but very effective _Incendio_. “This is complete and utter bullshit, Draco, and you know it,” Harry says firmly and rising to his feet, he rounds the table, forces Draco’s chair back and sinks into his lap. He wraps an arm around Draco’s shoulders, places a featherlight kiss on each of his eyelids and a more insistent one on his lips. A solitary tear runs down Draco’s cheek but Harry wipes it away with his thumb, gently persuades Draco to look at him and smiles. “Your book should be compulsory reading for all Hogwarts students. They should also be required to write an essay on it as part of their OWLs and NEWTs.” He says softly and Draco scoffs at him.

“Laying it on a bit thick now, aren’t you, Potter?” He says as he attempts to hide behind his preferred mask of _I-Don’t-Give-A-Fuck-About-Anyone-Or-Anything_. It’s merely an act and because Harry knows it, he ignores it.

“You know I’m not,” he says, purposefully holding Draco’s gaze, “you know I mean every word.”

Draco holds his gaze, attempting mild defiance for several minutes, then sighs and gives in. “I’m an idiot, aren’t I?” He asks. “I’m an idiot for letting this upset me. I should know better than letting this get to me, I’m not a child anymore.”

“No,” Harry shakes his head, “no, you aren’t an idiot, you’re anything but. This is upsetting. I should like to bring this Kirk Brown in for questioning, I suspect he might actually be under the Imperius Curse. Not even Rita Skeeter would write such utter tripe and coming from me that’s saying something.”

Draco’s rather alarmed look amuses Harry but he resolutely, and even though it greatly pains him to do so, keeps a straight face. “You aren’t going to do anything rash now, are you?” Draco asks, indirectly hinting at that incident, many, many years ago when _The Prophet_ found out about their relationship and printed a six-page-spread of complete and utter stinking rot outlining how Draco Malfoy and his family were secretly planning to continue the Dark Lord’s legacy and had managed to brainwash Harry into believing he was gay and in love with his former school nemesis.

“Me? I’d never.” Harry feigns complete innocence and purposefully distracts Draco with a kiss. Much to his dismay, Draco does not fall for it but merely tilts his head back and out of Harry’s immediate reach. Harry frowns, then pouts and Draco rolls his eyes at him.

“You better behave, Potter, or I will make use of a couple of very dark spells,” Draco threatens, though his warning lacks the bite it would need for Harry to take him even remotely seriously.

“I solemnly swear I’ll be on my best behaviour,” Harry smiles sweetly, leans in for another kiss and gets to his feet. He grabs his coffee, downs half of it and safe in the knowledge that he’s managed to improve Draco’s mood at least somewhat, he floos to work, or at least that’s what he leads Draco to believe. Because he’s sneaky like that, because the Sorting Hat was right all those years ago, he would have been a perfect fit for Slytherin.

Once he steps out of one of the Floos in the Ministry’s Atrium, he merely turns around, grabs a handful of floo powder and floos straight to _The Prophet_ ’s headquarters, where he has a very lengthy and very serious talk with the editor-in-chief of that the rag of a paper he very sweetly threatens to destroy if they don’t print an immediate and complete retraction of this morning’s drivel. To entice the editor-in-chief into cooperation, he offers an exclusive interview. Those magic words have the entire newspaper scrambling for his attention and less than ten minutes after he uttered his offer, he finds himself sitting on a comfortable sofa, hot cup of coffee in hand, breakfast bagel in his stomach, expectantly waiting for his interviewer to get over the novelty of being allowed to jot down Harry’s words, as well as ask him several questions. He’s resolutely refused to sit down with Rita Skeeter, which miffed her to no end, though Harry doesn’t give a flying fuck.

An hour later, with the interview finished, and the editor-in-chief’s formal promise that his exclusive interview will appear in tonight’s evening edition as well as tomorrow’s regular edition of _The Prophet_ , he makes his way to work, profusely apologises to his department head for his lateness and throws himself into work. He forgets all about lunch and spends the day catching up on a mountain of paperwork. He works right through until seven o’clock when he resolutely abandons his paperwork, bids everyone goodbye and apparates straight home.

Back at Grimmauld Place, he finds Draco in the living room, evening edition of _The Prophet_ in hand and a stupid grin on his face. “You wanker,” are the first words out of Draco’s mouth and Harry laughs.

“You’re welcome,” he says, pointedly ignores Draco’s jibe, relieves Draco of The Prophet and walks him back to the sofa. He pushes Draco down into the soft cushions and still dressed in his full Auror uniform, red robes, black dragon-hide boots, and all, he straddles Draco’s thighs, sits down and loosely locks his arms around the back of Draco’s neck. “Nobody upsets my man,” he says with the utmost sincerity and it draws an immediate laugh from Draco.

“You promised you wouldn’t do anything rash.” Draco rolls his eyes.

“And I didn’t. It was calculated, cunning and very—”

“Slytherin.” Draco finishes his sentence for him and they both laugh. Harry can tell that Draco is secretly pleased as punch that he has someone in his corner, that someone stood up for him when a rag of a newspaper attempted to bully him and portray him as somebody he never was nor ever will be. As Harry closes in to capture Draco’s lips in a rather fierce and passionate kiss, he knows that it would probably take half a cauldron of Veritaserum for Draco to admit that. Then again, Harry really doesn’t need Draco to admit to anything. He knows. He also knows that Draco knows. It’s one of the aspects of their relationship that hardly anyone seems to be able to grasp, not that Harry really cares. They understand each other completely and Harry quite honestly doesn’t give a flying fuck as to whether others do. He does, however, give a flying fuck when somebody tries to bully his man and today’s interview should have hopefully made that particular part crystal clear to everyone.


	10. Photograph

> _### We keep this love in a photograph_
> 
> _We made these memories for ourselves_
> 
> _Where our eyes are never closing_
> 
> _Hearts are never broken_
> 
> _And time's forever frozen still ###_

“What are you doing?” Harry asks inquisitively but his question goes unanswered. He hadn’t really expected anything less. This is just the way Draco is when he gets wrapped up in something, and wrapped up in something he definitely is. Has been for the fast few days in fact.

Harry perches himself on the corner of his and Draco’s bed and curiously sweeps his eyes first over Draco — _bespectacled, stunningly handsome and with his loose, long hair cascading down over his shoulders_ — then over all the photographs — _some muggle, some magical_ — Draco’s spread out in front of himself. Half a dozen boxes of memories frozen in time, and long-forgotten moments.

Harry hands Draco the cup of coffee, he requested, and taking a sip from his own mug, he chooses a random photograph and picks it up. It’s a portrait of Draco, casually lounging on the sofa in their living room and Harry thinks the photograph must be at least twenty-five years old, he isn’t sure. He doesn’t remember taking it, but his heart swells with love anyway. Even after nearly thirty years of sharing a life together, he still feels the same and it fills him with awe and a very healthy dose of respect for the magnitude of his feelings for Draco.

He turns his attention back to the photograph in his hand an takes another sip of his hot coffee, relishing in the reinvigorating qualities of his favourite beverage. A tiny jet-black ball of fur is curled up in Draco’s lap, fast asleep and probably purring contently. Lily Nox Potter-Malfoy, the green-eyed monster he gifted Draco for his birthday many, many years ago. The memory fills Harry with a little bit of sadness. Fifteen long years of pure joy and unadulterated bliss, fifteen long years of arguments over who she did love more. He still remembers the day she passed away as though it happened only yesterday and not some six years ago. That day Draco had been beyond distraught, had refused food, had been unwilling to speak and quite literally pushed Harry away anytime he’d tried to console him. It had taken him several days before he’d as much as stopped ignoring Lils’ daughter. He’d shooed her away any time she’d tried to come close, but just like her mother she’d refused to give up and continued to pester Draco until he’d, with the most dramatic sigh ever, given in and allowed her to cheer him up.

“And I still say she loved you more.” Draco’s comment doesn’t only drag Harry away from his unexpected trip down memory lane, but it also makes him laugh.

“Not that age-old debate again.” He rolls his eyes and drops the photograph back onto the pile of all the other photographs, Draco’s dragged out and into the open.

“We’ll be having that debate until you finally give in and admit that I’m right.” Draco smirks and Harry rolls his eyes.

“You do know Gryffindors are stubborn, don’t you?”

“They can be persuaded when they’re half-Slytherin.” Draco winks and Harry doesn’t say anything to that. He doesn’t need to, they both know it’s true. He does, however, utilise his bold Gryffindor bravery — _which Draco still refers to as insane stupidity_ — to venture into his favourite dragon’s lair.

“Does that mean you were sorted into the wrong house then? Since there’s no persuading you, even when faced with the naked truth, you were very clearly sorted into the wrong house all those years ago.” He throws back and Draco fixes him with such a venomous death glare that Harry actually sits up a little straighter.

“Potter, you _did_ _not_ just say that. You do realise this is grounds for immediate divorce, don’t you?”

“Like you would, Malfoy, like you would.” Harry laughs, watches Draco’s eyes narrow and pin him to the spot.

“Is that a challenge, Potter?” He asks and Harry instantly shakes his head.

“Absolutely not, I quite like waking up next to your wrinkled old bum.” He teases and yelps when Draco’s stinging hex hits him in the upper arm. Harry just about manages to cast a wandless non-spillage charm to prevent his coffee from landing all over the photographic evidence of the life they built together over the past three decades or so.

“My bum is _NOT_ wrinkled, you stinking Gryffindor!” Draco objects, continues to glare at Harry, who is still rubbing the spot where Draco’s stinging hex hit him and grins.

“Aww, you do say the sweetest things. And no, your bum isn’t wrinkled, I should know, you flaunt it mercilessly.”

“Didn’t think you’d mind…” Draco smirks and hands Harry a photograph that in an instant makes his mouth go dry. It depicts Draco, in all his naked glory, sprawled out on a dark-green beach towel, looking all sorts of suggestive. Harry does remember taking that particular photograph, remembers the holiday: A week in a luxurious, private villa in the Caribbean, a present for their tenth wedding anniversary, courtesy of his two best friends. He also remembers the mischief they’d gotten up to just after he’d taken the photograph and his trousers tighten considerably at the fond memory. “You should frame that one and put it on your desk in the office,” Draco laughs. Harry rolls his eyes but instead of tossing the photograph back onto the pile of all the other photographs, he slips it into his pocket. “If you need wank material, my love, I’d be only too happy to strip for you,” Draco teases and Harry wisely refrains from commenting, since all he wants to do is order Draco to strip down to his birthday suit.

“Tell me again why I haven’t strangled you yet?”

“Because you know I’m not into breath play?” Draco says with a perfectly straight face and Harry splutters into his coffee cup and coughs.

“Draco!”

“What?” Draco asks, blinks innocently.

“You’re impossible.” Harry sighs.

“A but you love me…”

“Sometimes I wonder why…” Harry mumbles, reaches into the pile of photographs and randomly pulls out another. This one is a photo of them both, standing on either side of Teddy at his Hogwarts graduation ceremony. Harry sighs wistfully and wordlessly stares at the picture for the longest time. He quietly remembers Teddy’s parents and briefly closes his eyes as he sends his regards in a silent prayer.

When he opens them again, he finds that he has to blink several times to keep the tears from falling as he recalls the day Teddy confided in him about wanting to marry Victoire Weasley, his childhood sweetheart and Hogwarts crush. The very next day they went ring shopping and a year later Harry walked Teddy down the aisle, followed by Victoire, on her proud father’s arm. He remembers crying like a baby at their wedding, remembers crying again when Teddy and Victoire asked him to be their twins’ godfather and unashamedly cries now but pulls himself together when Draco reaches across and squeezes his hand. Harry looks up at Draco and for the longest time, he simply looks, then clears his throat and swallows past the thick lump that is stubbornly still sitting there. “Do you think it’s too late for us to—”

“Have children?” Draco finishes his own question for him and reminds Harry — _yet again_ — of the very reason he loves Draco because he understands him better than anyone else in the whole damn universe. Not quite trusting himself to speak, Harry merely nods solemnly and is suddenly overwhelmed with an intense longing to discover what it would feel like to hold his own son or daughter in his arms, to teach them all about magic, to help them mount their first broom, to take them to Diagon Alley to pick out their first wand, to see them off on Platform 9¾ and pick them up again…

He watches Draco conjure a coaster and set his coffee mug down on it, then Draco unceremoniously brushes a lifetime of memories aside, crawls across the bed and sits back on his haunches. “Do you want children, Harry?” He asks and Harry isn’t quite sure if it’s his raw emotions that make him respond without a second thought, or the fact that he really does truly want children that makes him say yes. Draco sighs. “I’ll have to buy more boxes. We’ll have to redecorate too, one of the guest bedrooms will have to go.” He says and Harry blinks, flabbergast, and wonders whether he’s heard right.

“Are you saying you want to have a child with me?” Harry wants to know and momentarily doesn’t understand why Draco doesn’t have any objections to this. Even he knows that attempting fatherhood at nearly forty-eight is, while by no means impossible, just a little ludicrous.

“Yes, unless of course, you’re planning to kick me out, go straight and shack up with a lady friend?” Draco’s light-hearted remark melts the lump in Harry’s throat. He frowns and rolls his eyes, then chuckles as he allows himself a moment to imagine himself with a woman. The mere idea makes him shudder. Nope. It’s Draco all the way. It has always been Draco and it will always be Draco.

“Wouldn’t trade you for the world,” he says, tilts his head slightly to the right and looks at Draco, really looks at him and frowns, looks at him some more and tries to find some sort of proof that _this_ , them possibly having a child, is not what Draco wants. When he doesn’t find any proof in Draco’s eyes or anywhere else on his face, he opts for asking outright, “Is this what you want? What you really want?” He simply needs to know, because this is not something they ever really talked about. They joked about it a few times, but there was never once a moment where they both sat down to have a serious conversation about starting a family.

“Why wouldn’t I want to have a child with you? I do love you, you know? Or have you forgotten? I might not say the words as often as I probably should, but that doesn’t make it any less real, and you know that” Draco pauses and takes a deep breath, “Honestly, I’m terrified of the idea, but I’ve seen you help raise Teddy, I’ve seen the way you handle children and I think we could probably figure it out. Also, I think Granger will either send us a massive box of parenting books or offer to move in with us,” Draco smiles, takes another moment to brace himself for whatever he’s about to say next and continues after letting out a soft sigh, “I’m a little surprised you’ve never told me before, there were times when I fully expected you to sit me down and tell me you want to start a family but you never did and you know me, I can be a bit of a coward at times.”

“It was that photograph,” Harry nods towards the very photo that brought all of this about and sighs, “you and I, I never felt like something was missing, I still don’t. I just, I, I looked at the photo and it was a bit of an avalanche of emotions, a bit of everything, all at once… Is me wanting to know what it feels like to be a father the wrong reason to have a child? It’s not like I can give the child back if I don’t like the feeling?”

Draco’s first response to Harry’s heartfelt confession is an amused chuckle. It makes Harry frown and he’s about to reprimand Draco for his absolutely inappropriate reaction, but Draco raises his hand to silence him before he can even utter the first syllable of his indignant complaint.

“You’re going to want to give the child back. Every night when he or she wails and wakes us from our peaceful slumber, you’re going to give it back. When he or she gets into trouble and the Hogwarts headmaster summons us into his office, you’re going to want to give it back. When he or she starts taking an interest in boys or girls, or both, you’re going to wish you never asked me to have a child with you because having to sit him or her down to talk about sex is going to be the most embarrassing thing you’ll ever do in your life. When he or she gets married you’re going to wish you never had it because the pain of letting go is going to be just that little bit too much. But you know what? Fuck all that, because at the end of the day you’ll still have me.”

When Draco falls silent, Harry is crying and is for the first time ever he is absolutely mortified about his lack of control over his bodily fluids. “Fuck, Draco, how do you do this? How do you reduce me to this?” He asks accusingly but without bite.

“The same way you do it to me.” Draco smiles and Harry lets him take that coffee mug away and set it down on yet another conjured coaster. He lets Draco pull him into a warm and comforting embrace, lets him kiss his tears away and melts into Draco’s kiss, closing his eyes and losing himself in the familiar sensations of kissing the one man who changed his life in more ways than Harry could possibly imagine, and is about to change it again.

When they both part several minutes later, Harry keeps his eyes closed, rests his forehead against Draco’s forehead and wonders for the millionth time what he did to deserve to get this lucky. He also wonders whether this, the way he feels right now, is how his parents felt when they fell in love. It makes him a little sad and he allows himself a moment, then buries the memory. “Daddy Draco,” he mumbles and winces when Draco slaps his thigh harder than strictly necessary. He doesn’t know if they’re actually going to go through with this insane idea, doesn’t even want to think about the logistics of it all, but feels utterly content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics I quoted at the beginning of the song are from Ed Sheeran's song "Photograph" which I listened to before writing this chapter.


	11. Home

“Did you ever regret leaving the Manor behind? Like, when I asked you to move in with me?” Harry breaks the comfortable silence between them and when Draco whips his head around, he is quite surprised to see the rather incredulous look on Draco’s face. Harry doesn’t really know what possessed him to ask this particular question but now that he’s asked it, he can’t very well take it back.

They’re enjoying a leisurely stroll around the impressive gardens of Malfoy Manor, soaking up spring’s first snuggly warm rays of sunshine, and despite the less than pleasant memories of his very first visit to the Manor, Harry has long since changed his mind about Draco’s childhood home. It no longer looks anything like it did back when Voldemort’s made it his headquarters. Upon Draco’s insistence, his mother took it upon herself to redecorate the entire place completely. While Harry doesn’t feel even a little bit at home here — _he doubts he ever will_ — he can admit that Malfoy Manor is utterly magnificent. Ever since Narcissa Malfoy brighten up the entire place, it has a certain, and quite undeniable, charm to it. It is still impressive and grand and awe-inspiring but Draco’s somehow, and quite subtly so, managed to make it that he enjoys their infrequent stays in Wiltshire.

Harry also discovered that he quite enjoys roaming the halls of the Manor with Draco, enjoys chatting to various paintings and positively delights in all the hidden passages and secret rooms, Draco’s shown him over the last few years. He also loves the fact that they can chase each other around on their brooms without the slightest care in the world, but if he’s completely honest, what he’ll always enjoy the most is, when at the end of the day, he gets to take Draco’s hand and they apparate to Grimmauld Place and slip into bed together.

“What in Salazar’s name makes you ask me this?” Draco wants to know, his piercing grey-blue eyes boring into him, making him feel a bit dizzy.

Harry shrugs, “dunno, you did grow up here.”

“And? There might be a bunch of ancient wards on this place, but even as the heir to the estate and all, it doesn’t force me to grow old here.” Draco responds, still looking rather gobsmacked. “I can live wherever I please to, you know.”

“I just wondered…” Harry mumbles, suddenly feeling the need to justify his question, though deep down he knows he doesn’t need to. Draco understands his silliness better than anyone does.

“Merlin, Potter, you astound me. Are you worried that I don’t like living with you at Grimmauld Place?” Draco is nothing if not direct whenever he’s miffed at Harry’s odd questions, Harry knows that and it makes him mildly uncomfortable. He isn’t about to confess that to Draco though, it would only give Draco even more ammunition and Harry thinks Draco has more than enough of that already, knows how to use it too. “If I didn’t like living with you, I’d have never agreed to move in when you asked me, you silly bugger.” He adds and Harry says nothing. Not because he doesn’t have anything to say but because he knows that what Draco said makes perfect sense.

They continue their stroll in silence and shortly after they pass one of the impressive water fountains in the walled rose garden, it’s Draco’s turn to ask an awkward question. “Are you, have you changed your mind? You know, about us…living together?” He asks and although it sounds like a perfectly normal question, Harry can’t help but flinch at the bucketload of insecurity he can hear. He instantly yearns for a time turner to go back in time and erase any trace of this uncomfortable conversation.

“Merlin! God no!” Harry says at once and hopes Draco can tell he’s sincere about this. He absolutely has no regrets about asking Draco to come live with him permanently. He also has no regrets about all the redecorating Draco’s been doing, because if he’s perfectly honest, since Draco’s made renovating Grimmauld Place his pet project, the house has started to feel like a proper home. Then again, Harry thinks, the fact that he feels so utterly at home at Grimmauld Place might not actually have anything to do with Draco’s — _rather successful_ — attempts to breathe life back into the old Black residence. It might have everything to do with the fact that he lives there with Draco. “I’m being stupid again, aren’t I?” Harry finds himself asking and smiles to himself when Draco chuckles.

“Whenever are you not, Potter?” He teases and Harry attempts to elbow him but misses because Draco is just that little bit faster in taking a step to the side to avoid Harry’s sharp elbow.

“Could you like not be so mean all the time?” Harry complains, though he doesn’t mean it, and stops walking when Draco steps in front of him and raises an eyebrow at him. His amused grin is Harry’s undoing but he tries his best to keep a straight face.

“I am never mean, Harry, only truthful, sometimes rather bluntly so.” He says, purposefully laying on his distinct posh drawl and Harry loses all will to be even just remotely serious.

“Dunderheads, the both of us.” He laughs and Draco affixes him with a rather vicious glare.

“That term applies solely to the Weasel.” He says and Harry rolls his eyes. There was a time when he would have been upset about Draco’s hideous nickname for Ron, but things have changed and Harry knows that Draco uses the name to get a rise out of both of them, rather than to actually insult.

“Will I ever see the day that you two manage to have a civil conversation without me clutching my wand, worried you’ll hex each other into oblivion?”

“Where’d be the fun in that?” Draco grins and Harry shakes his head and wonders where exactly their conversation went wrong. All he wanted to know was whether Draco was happy at Grimmauld Place, although he does admit that he possibly went about it the wrong way.

“Well, it’d be nice to enjoy a couple of drinks while you two are in the same room, instead of watching you like a hawk.”

“And there was me thinking you rather liked watching me…” Draco drawls and Harry gives him a pointed look.

“That depends entirely on the place and the circumstance.” He says and the smirk and Draco’s face tells him that he’s in for a very special treat. So, when Draco pulls him flush against his body, he merely wraps his arms around Draco’s waist and waits for the familiar tug of side-along apparition as Draco whisks him away.

Much later that evening — _when they’re both back at Grimmauld Place and Harry lies contently spooned around Draco with Draco tightly hugging Harry’s arm to his chest_ — Draco makes a quiet confession to Harry that makes his chest swell with love has him bury his face in Draco’s back, inhaling deeply and counting all his lucky stars a million times over. “You know, Potter, home is a place where you feel loved, appreciated and safe. It is wherever _you_ are.” Harry doesn’t say anything to that utterly perfect declaration of love but makes a mental note to save the memory in a phial so he can watch it repeatedly in his pensive when he’s old and grey and too senile to remember what made him fall in love with Draco in the first place.


	12. Blanket

“If it keeps snowing like this, we’ll give Canada a run for their money,” Harry says aloud — _though he doesn’t expect to actually get an answer from Draco_ — looking out of the living room window and over Grimmauld Place. All he can see is snow. Layers upon layers of thick white snow, mercilessly blanketing absolutely everything. London’s perfect network of public transportation has broken down completely and the city has come to a complete standstill. Cars are buried under several feet of snow and the roads are covered with a treacherous mixture of snow and ice. Since no amount of salting manages to clear away even just an inch of the snow, that’s been wreaking havoc with the city and turning Britain into a giant polar vortex, the British government has all but given up on clearing roads and pavements. London’s four airports are closed, trains run on an intermittent schedule — _though mostly not at all_ — and Hogwarts had to call in the entire Auror department to evacuate the students on board the Hogwarts Express when the train got stuck in an almighty blizzard less than halfway to London. Harry thinks he can still feel the frostbite he had to get treatment at St Mungo’s for, thinks it’s a mission he’ll remember for the rest of his life and one he hopes to never ever have to repeat.

The Ministry for Magic has issued several warnings, cautioning wizards and witches not to apparate during in poor visibility. The Floo network is completely wonky and Harry hasn’t been to the office in five days. He’s absolutely dreading to even think about the mountain of paperwork that eagerly awaits his return and is quite tempted to owl in his resignation, except Duke Bubo Owlington — _Draco’s beautiful eagle owl_ — is on strike and refuses to fly in the Arctic conditions that have befallen Britain. Draco has strictly forbidden him to apparate anywhere. To make matters worse, every time Harry throws floo power into the fireplace in their formal drawing room and attempts to floo to the Ministry he ends up falling out of their living room fireplace, soiling Draco’s favourite safavieh shag rug. After the third time it happened, Draco made it abundantly clear that if it happens again, he’ll set a blizzard of Malfoy-esque proportions loose inside the house. Harry has seen Draco blow a fuse more often then he cares to remember to know that Draco is not messing. Harry supposes he could fly to work, but after that _Hogwarts-Express-Rescue-Mission-From-Hell_ , Harry has no inclination whatsoever to get up on a broom anytime soon. Even the thought of a Quidditch match fills him with apprehension.

While being stuck at Grimmauld Place with Draco isn’t really the worst thing in the world, Harry thinks he’s starting to suffer from a mild bout of cabin fever. They have plenty of food at home and he’s been doing a fair amount of experimenting in the kitchen, has even managed to bake snowflake-shaped vanilla-flavoured cookies for their afternoon teas. He also has plenty of reading material, enough to last him several years if he’s honest, but it’s hard to concentrate on a book when you’re feeling all cooped up inside and your husband is ignoring you in favour of writing on his latest book.

“Let’s build a blanket fort.” Draco’s rather unorthodox offer startles Harry. He turns his back on the sensory overload of whiteness outside and eyes Draco with a certain sense of suspiciousness.

“You want to do what now?” He asks, not entirely certain he’s heard correctly.

“I want to build a blanket fort with you, or don’t you know what that is?”

“Of course, I know what that is!” Harry rolls his eyes and thinks wanting to make a blanket fort is very unlike Draco. It’s about the last thing Harry would have expected Draco to suggest and he quite desperately wants to know why Draco knows what a blanket fort is and why he suddenly wants to build one. Harry also refuses to admit that in the thirty years, since he’s was born, he’s never ever built a blanket fort. Well, he’s willing to admit it to himself but doesn’t think he’s quite ready to make that kind of confession to Draco. He reckons he’s being beyond silly. They are, after all, married.

“Well then, let’s make one.” Draco grins at him and Harry frowns, watches Draco draw his wand and summon a vast array of blankets, bedsheets, quilts, cushions, and pillows from all over the house. They all fly into the living room and the blankets, bedsheets and quilts neatly fold themselves on top of the sofa, while the cushion and pillows pile themselves up on top of the two armchairs opposite the sofa and on the table. Next, Draco summons a vast array of brooms — _Harry didn’t even know they had that many_ — and transfigures them all into dowels of matching lengths, which he pills up at the foot of their sofa.

“Who are you and what have you done with my husband?” Harry finds himself asking, entirely unsure of what to make of this strange version of Draco. He doesn’t think he’s ever met this Draco before, at least not in the almost two years that they’ve been married and most definitely not in the thirteen years since they — _post-war_ — buried the hatchet.

“Wouldn’t you like to know…” Draco winks at him and Harry’s eyes automatically narrow. For a split second, he allows himself to consider the possibility that he’s standing in front of a polyjuiced version of Draco Malfoy, but he abandons that idea almost immediately. The man standing in front of him is most definitely and absolutely undeniable his husband, he’s just acting rather strange and Harry wonders if all the writing Draco’s been doing made him go wonky in the head. He wisely refrains from asking, know that it would only result in him being the recipient of a stinging hex and since he really can’t think of anything else, they could be doing, he merely shrugs.

“Well, what would you like me to do?” He asks and Draco motions toward the coffee table.  
  
“Move that out of the way, then make sure that the sofa and the armchairs are arranged to form a square shape and secure the dowels north, south, east and west.” He instructs and Harry dutifully does as he’s told. He struggles to fasten the dowels and is about to draw his wand to use magic for help when Draco scolds him quite firmly.

“No magic!” He protests and before Harry manages to react, Draco’s summoned his wand and is triumphantly twirling it in his hand. Draco’s smirk irks Harry to no end and he’s about to wandlessly get his wand back when Draco closes the distance between them and appeases him with a kiss. “Blanket forts are only half as much fun when they're built with magic. Use string or tape or whatever.” He says.

“You transfigured our brooms into dowels,” Harry grumbles, but lets one of the dowels drop to the floor and resting both his arms on Draco’s shoulders, he draws him in for another kiss. Draco quite happily obliges but breaks their kiss way too soon, which only suffices to make Harry grumble some more.

“I’ll kiss you all afternoon and all night if you like, once the fort is ready.” He gives Harry an incentive he most definitely can’t resist. He pushes past Draco and makes a dash into the kitchen — _quite uncharacteristically so for someone in his early thirties who has recently been promoted to Head of the Auror Department_ — in search of some string. The echo of Draco’s amused laughter follows him and regardless of the insanity of it all, Harry suddenly very much wants to build that blasted blanket fort. He thinks Draco knows him all too well but isn’t bothered to contemplate the matter any further. Finding string is of much higher importance now and he rather frantically rifles through all their kitchen drawers.

“Ha!” He shouts triumphantly several minutes later when he finally locates a ball of white string, he didn’t know they had in the house. He clutches it to his chest, like a prized possession of vital importance, and returns to the living room to resume the very important task of fastening dowels to their sofa and two armchairs.

Once he’s finished, Draco instructs him to drape the blankets and bedsheets all over the construction and secure those with clothespins, which he’s sure he’s never used in the decade he and Draco have lived together at Grimmauld Place. Molly has, after all, taught him a couple of very useful drying charms for the purpose of dealing with the laundry quickly and efficiently. Once the blankets and bedsheets are in place, Draco constructs a beautiful entrance to their fort and begins to carry the quilts and pillows inside. Harry watches him from the entrance as he spreads the quilts on top of the shag rug, layer upon layer until he’s created a soft mattress for them to lie on. Harry dutifully hands him pillow after pillow and cushion after cushion and doesn’t think that two gay thirty-year-old men building a blanket fort in their living room is at all strange. Draco arranges the cushions and pillows beautifully and Harry carefully crawls inside their fort as Draco wordlessly returns his wand to him. He then watches with bated breath as Draco conjures several multi-coloured glass spheres and the soft light, they emit, as they float near the ceiling of their fort, makes Harry want to lie down and simply stare into space and forget everything beyond the entrance to their little haven.

Before he manages to get comfortable, Draco, however, shoos him into the kitchen and tells him to make tea and prepare some cookies. Harry grudgingly shuffles out of the fort, gets to his feet, and makes his way into the kitchen to boil water and find a plate for the cookies he baked the other day. He finds their favourite mugs, drops a teabag each inside and while he waits for the kettle to boil the water, he prepares a second plate of tangerines, walnuts, and dried cranberries. Once the water boils, he pours the tea and adds a splash of milk to Draco’s tea. His he leaves black. He levitates everything onto a tray and casts a non-spillage charm, then returns to the living room. He’s surprised to find that Draco’s turned off the lights and turned on the wireless instead. Soft music is playing in the background and Harry sinks to his knees and hands Draco the tray. He crawls into the tend and chuckles when Draco seals the entrance behind him.

“You are something else, Draco Malfoy,” he shakes his head, gets comfortable among the sea of pillows and cushions, and looks up at Draco, who’s sitting cross-legged, sipping his tea.

“You might quite possibly be right,” he grins, hands Harry his own tea and they drink half of it in silence before it occurs to Harry that Draco’s made him a promise. With a rather mischievous glint in his eyes, he flashes Draco a broad smile and sends his tea mug back to the tray.

“I distinctly remember you promising me kisses,” he mumbles. Draco’s amused chuckle and the warm twinkle in his eyes make his stomach flutter pleasantly.

“Hm, I do remember making that promise,” Draco says, shuffles, and sets his tea mug down onto the tray, then crawls closer to Harry and looks at him. “Hey handsome,” he whispers, leans down, and presses his lips against Harry’s in a chaste kiss, which the moment Harry reaches up to wrap his arms around Draco’s neck, turns into a rather unrestrained snog.

Harry allows his hands to aimlessly roam over Draco’s back and his sides and thoroughly enjoys the kiss. He sighs contently when Draco slides into a horizontal position and shudders when Draco’s warm hand finds its way underneath his t-shirt and teasingly ghosts over his long, soft fingers over Harry’s skin. Harry groans with discontent when Draco breaks their kiss and frowns up at him, wants to object, but Draco withdraws his had from underneath his t-shirt and places a single finger over his lips.

“Hush,” he whispers and Harry swallows whatever is on the tip of his tongue, “I want to spoil you,” Draco continues and Harry has no objections whatsoever to that. Their kissing continues but every time Harry attempts to touch Draco, Draco pulls away from their kiss and gives him a pointed look. He doesn’t say anything but the expression on his face is enough for Harry to consciously try to control his hands. Instead, of touching Draco, he twists his fists into the quilt, he’s lying on and relaxes as Draco covers him in kisses. Harry lets his eyes flutter closed and simply enjoys the featherlight kisses on his face, the somewhat more insistent kisses on his neck and is oddly compliant when Draco divests him of his t-shirt. By the time Draco’s reached his nipples, Harry can’t quite stop himself from emitting low moans, peppered with a whispered ‘ _please_ ’ here and there, though he isn’t entirely sure what exactly he’s asking for.

Draco ignores him and oddly enough Harry feels like he’s nineteen and they’re about to have sex for the very first time. The thought of that makes him shudder and his stomach quivers when Draco showers it in kisses. A long sigh and a soft moan fall from his lips when Draco French kisses his navel and he all but bucks his hips when Draco’s cups his erection through his jeans and massages it terrifyingly slow. He arches his back, wants more, but Draco resolutely ignores him, firmly presses his hips back down onto the quilts and slowly kisses down his snail trail and breathes hot air over the place where it vanishes into his jeans and boxers. Harry sighs with relief when Draco pops the button of his jeans and is agonisingly slow in dragging the zipper down, then pulls the rough garment off him and tosses it away. He leaves Harry in only his boxers and socks, sits back on his haunches and holding Harry’s gaze he takes off his shirt and peels himself out of his trousers, revealing the fact that he’s not wearing any underwear at all.

When his hard cock springs free of its confines, Harry groans and wants to touch but finds his hand slapped away and Draco’s stern glare reminds him to behave. He subjects Harry to more agonisingly slow torture, kisses his way up Harry’s legs, past his knees and up the inside of his thighs. Once he reaches the hem of Harry’s boxers, he stops, hooks two fingers into the soft silk underwear and drags it down Harry’s legs. He takes Harry’s socks off along with his boxers and lavishes Harry’s straining erection with some much-needed attention. When it’s almost too much to take, he stops and Harry groans in utter frustration.

Draco shuffles up, kisses him with vigour, then mumbles two words against his kiss-swollen lips, “turn over.”

Harry obliges, pulls a pillow under his chest and half buries his face in it. He lets Draco kiss him from one shoulder blade to the other, groans when Draco leaves a mark on the crook of his neck and sighs when Draco kisses, licks and nips his way down his spine, all the way to where his arse cheeks part. There Draco mumbles a wandless cleaning spell and Harry, suddenly acutely aware of what Draco is about to do to him, groans loudly and without the slightest bit of restraint.

“Oh fuck, yes, Draco, please,” he begs and shivers when Draco chuckles softly, gently pulls his arse cheeks apart and trails a series of wet kisses down to his hole. He bucks his hips, presses them into the quilt beneath when Draco swipes his tongue across the furrowed flesh and moans. “Please,” he pleads and groans when Draco kisses his hole, prods it with his tongue and coats it with a thick layer of warm, wet saliva. Harry feels like he’s floating on cloud number nine and practically melts underneath the administrations of Draco’s skilful tongue. He pleads, begs, and curses, but Draco ignores him entirely, keeps his own pace and Harry doesn’t know if whatever he’s saying makes any sense at all. He doubts it does, can’t quite get enough of what Draco’s doing to him and thinks he’s about to explode onto the quilts beneath him when Draco wisely stops.

Harry twists his head sideways and looks at Draco with dopey eyes, “I fucking love you,” he mutters and Draco leans forward and half covers him with his glorious naked body.

“I always wanted to ravish you in a tent,” he breathes into Harry’s ear and Harry shudders, then bucks when he feels a slick finger caressing his very sensitive hole. Draco teases for a moment and when he, a moment later, pushes his finger inside, Harry barely feels himself resist at all. He allows Draco to fingerfuck him and emits a low moan when Draco twists his finger and brushes against his prostate.

“Fuck, Draco, please, I need you,” he implores.

“All in good time, Potter,” Draco teases him, twists his finger and brushes that sweet spot deep inside of him again. Harry writhes beneath him, doesn’t quite know whether he wants to impale himself on Draco’s finger or dry-hump the quilt beneath him. He does neither but actually screams in delight when Draco withdraws his finger only to push a second one in alongside it. When Draco finds his prostate this time, tears sting Harry’s eyes and he squeezes them tightly shut and begs Draco again. His requests fall on deaf ears and Draco simply tortures him a little more, takes his sweet time to prepare him — _Harry loves and hates him passionately for it_ — but when he does finally withdraw his fingers and shuffles to lie on top of him, Harry buries his face and growls into the pillow. A moment later, he feels the tip of Draco’s lube-slicked cock press against his hole, push inside and fill him. It burns and Harry sucks in a sharp breath but manages to adjust fairly quickly. It helps that Draco peppers his neck and shoulder blades with a million tiny kisses, licks, nips and bites and interlocks their hands together.

Soon enough Draco sets a gentle pace, thrusting into him and Harry thinks he might just die and go to heaven, thinks this is too good to be true.

“I love making love to you like this, I love driving you wanton with lust, driving you so crazy you can barely stand it, driving you so mad you’d sell your soul for that sweet relief you know only I can give you, you have no idea how unbelievably fucking sexy you are when you let me have absolute control,” Draco mumbles into his ears and Harry growls. It turns into a groan and that turns into a languid moan. When Draco finds his prostate he screams, mutters all sorts of obscenities, squeezes Draco’s hand so tightly his knuckles go white and unashamedly begs for more. Draco obliges and sets a steady pace that has him tense and spill his seed deep into Harry several minutes of unadulterated passionate fucking later.

Harry clenches around Draco’s cock, delights in the feeling of Draco coming buried inside him and it when Draco tells him to let go, he does just that and comes on a guttural groan of Draco’s name and several rather indiscernible illicit promises, that make sense in Harry’s head but have no meaning when they fall from his lips.

He allows Draco to slump on top of him as they both try to regain some control over their breathing and composures but eventually pleads for Draco to roll off him. Draco gratifies his wish, and they lie facing each other, legs entangled, mere inches between their chests. They share a haphazard and very lazy kiss and after several minutes Harry forces his eyes open, blinks several times and stares at Draco.

“This is my first blanket fort,” he confesses quietly and Draco smiles.

“And it won’t be your last,” he replies and Harry’s heart skips a beat as he wonders when on earth, he got so goddamn lucky.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Harry wants to know and Draco nods.

“I knew when we watched that movie a while back and those kids build a fortress-like this to mess around in,” he explains, “you had that glassy-eyed look on your face, the one you get when you really want something,” he smirks and Harry can’t help but roll his eyes.

“I love you, you fucking nutter,” he mumbles and kisses the tip of Draco’s nose.

“Why Potter, it was you who proposed to me, that makes you the nutter.”

“You accepted,” Harry counters and they both share a silly chuckle, then snuggle a little closer and close their eyes. Harry almost immediately drifts off into a sated post-orgasmic slumber and his last coherent thought is that Draco’s the missing piece that makes him whole.


	13. Snow

> _### We've been here many times before_
> 
> _Leaving rooms and slamming doors_
> 
> _We're climbing up the bedroom walls_
> 
> _Sometimes we make it so frustrating_
> 
> _I touch your mouth, I touch your lips_
> 
> _The answers are our fingertips_
> 
> _Not giving up or giving in_
> 
> _Why are we so complicated? ###_

“They day it fucking snows in July is the day I’ll willingly sit down and let _The Prophet_ interview us!” Draco snaps and storms out before Harry manages to get another word in edgewise. Somewhat bewildered, Harry, tea mug still in hand, stands in their kitchen and stares at the spot Draco just vacated. He thinks that he’s never managed to piss Draco off this quickly and is quite sure that this time he’s well and truly succeeded in setting a record.

The second he’d mentioned _The Prophet_ and _interview_ , Draco had blown up into his face, questioning his sanity and querying why Harry was actively seeking out the press when they never left him alone in the first place. Harry had known Draco wouldn’t be pleased about his suggestion to sit down with a reporter from _The Prophet_ for an exclusive interview, but after some serious deliberation — _and a lengthy chat with Hermione_ — he’d come to the conclusion that an exclusive interview might just be the best way to clear up those idiotic allegations that are presently floating around the wizarding world, making both their lives a living hell.

Evidently, Draco does not agree.

Harry, for a moment, debates whether to follow Draco and for the first time ever he’s actually torn. One part of him thinks he should give Draco time to cool off before trying to reason with him. Another part of him — _the impulsive one, the one that is quite often responsible for his stupid Gryffindor bravery_ — urges him to follow Draco to try and talk some sense into him.

Harry reckons giving into impulse is quite probably the wrong thing to do but his feet have already carried him to the living room. Draco is sat on the couch, arms crossed, sulking.

“Draco…,” he tries and winces at the icy death glare Draco shoots his way.  
  
“Don’t you fucking Draco me,” he snarls and Harry sighs.

“We’re back to Potter and Malfoy then?” He asks and tries his best not to roll his eyes when Draco pointedly ignores him. “You know, you’re so fucking childish sometimes,” he says, feeling rather irked that they can’t seem to have a serious conversation about this issue. “The Prophet is printing shit about you, about me, about us. It would be so easy to set the record straight, but no, you are being a stubborn mule about this and won’t even consider the possibility that it might solve some of our problems. It would make my days at work easier, that’s for sure.”

“Almighty Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World is having a tough time at work, so, of course, I have to jump and fix the problem,” Draco drawls and Harry clenches his fists at his sides and forces himself to take a deep breath.

“Malfoy, you know damn well that’s not what I meant,” he says and tries his best to keep his voice calm. The fact that he’s reeling with anger doesn’t exactly make it easy to control himself and it takes Harry all he has to keep his magic from wreaking havoc.

“I’m not going to give _The Prophet_ the satisfaction of interviewing us, end of it, stop badgering me about it, Potter, there’s absolutely nothing you can say to change my mind. Out of the two of us, you’re the celebrity, not me,” Draco retorts, eyes still cold and piercing. Harry fumes and feels his wand hand twitch. A small part of him wants to draw his wand on Draco and hex him to another galaxy.

“You can be such a fucking prick sometimes, Malfoy,” he growls, eyes blazing with the fury he no longer manages to control.

“I was rather under the impression you like fucking prick,” Draco deadpans and Harry loses his resolve to even try to remain civilised.

“Fuck you, Draco, just fuck you! I’ve had enough of your antics,” Harry snaps, turns on his heel and leaves the room. Out in the hallway, he initially heads up the stairs but changes his mind halfway up and leaves the house instead. He makes a point of childishly slamming the door and walks off down the road, not fussed about where his feet are taking him. As he walks, he silently curses his inability to make the right choice, to give Draco time to cool off before continuing their conversation. He wonders whether he’s inadvertently ended their relationship, curses himself some more but resolutely continues walking. The sensible part of him wants to turn back, wants to set the record straight, but the stubborn part of him urges him to continue walking and not stop until his anger has all but dissipated.

*

*

*

It’s rather late in the evening when Harry finally returns home. He unlocks the front door with a spell, quietly steps inside and takes off his shoes. The lights on the ground floor are off and casting a silent _Lumos_ he tiptoes into the kitchen and makes himself a cup of tea. Much to his surprise, he finds a cucumber and cheese sandwich waiting for him on the counter, perfectly preserved under a Stasis Charm. An envelope, addressed to him, lies underneath the plate and Harry warily takes it, pulls out the parchment inside and unfolds it. His hands tremble somewhat as his eyes settle upon Draco’s beautifully slanted handwriting:

> _I’m the world’s biggest idiot, I’m sorry. Come to find me in the bedroom once you’ve had your sandwich and tea. ~D_

“Not single then,” Harry mumbles to himself, sighs softly and doesn’t bother to sit down. He quietly chews on his sandwich and sips his tea, lets his mind wander, and thinks about nothing in particular. He doesn’t really think that it’s Draco’s turn to apologise, rather thinks he screwed up and is determined to set the record straight once he gets upstairs. He finishes his sandwich, drinks the last of his tea and not bothered to clean the plate or rinse his cup he leaves both items in the kitchen sink and slowly makes his way upstairs. It’s not that he feels apprehensive about coming face to face with Draco, they have had much worse arguments in the past — _the week they went without talking when Draco unreasonably refused to accompany him to Ron’s and Hermione’s wedding comes to mind almost instantly_ — but realisation of how close he’s come to losing it all today has hit him square in the face, much like a rogue bludger during an out-of-control Quidditch match.

When he finally reaches their bedroom, he finds the door closed and knocks tentatively. He instantly feels foolish for knocking on his own bedroom door but waits patiently for permission to come inside. Draco’s voice is soft and gentle and it somewhat calms Harry’s frayed nerves. Armed with a ton of apologies and explanations, he turns the doorknob, pushes the door open and stops dead in his tracks, stares and thinks he’s quite possibly gone loopy. It takes him a good minute to gather himself, and when he does the first words he manages to say are, “What the fuck?”

His foul exclamation is met with a rather amused chuckle and as he carefully — _but with a healthy dose of hesitation_ — steps further into the bedroom, well, what used to be their bedroom, at least, because it now resembles a Winter Wonderland of epic proportions. Every single surface, including their canopy bed, is covered with a thick layer of snow, fairy Christmas lights are floating in the air, and Draco’s sat in the centre of their bed, wearing nothing but a Santa hat.

“What exactly is this?” Harry finds himself asking, prods at the snow beneath his feet, marvels at how real it feels, but finds it strange that his feet are freezing or soaking wet.

“Snow in July,” Draco grins and it takes Harry a moment to realise what Draco is referring to, but when he does he doubles over laughing, sinks to his knees, clutches his belly and ungracefully topples into the snow. He makes a snowball, tosses it at Draco and laughs some more. “You fucking idiot!” He gasps between bouts of laughter, watches Draco crawl off the bed and join him on the floor. The moment Draco is within reaching distance, Harry grabs him, wrestles him to the ground, straddles him and pins his arms to the ground. “I should be the one to apologise, not you,” he says with conviction, “I pushed you instead of giving you time to think, I didn’t even try to ask you why you don’t want to do the interview.”

“Oh, shut it, Potter,” Draco rolls his eyes, overconfident even though he’s the one who’s at a clear disadvantage, although Harry has no doubt that Draco would indeed manage to bend the situation to his advantage and get himself out his current rather compromising position. “After everything that’s happened, I’m just really glad to not be in the papers, but I do agree with you, an exclusive interview would shut down the rumour mill. It’s been going on long enough,” Draco says and Harry’s heart swells with love at the honesty that’s shining in Draco’s clear grey-blue orbs. All the coldness from this morning is gone, replaced with warmth and love and Harry can’t resist the urge to lean down and capture Draco’s lips in a fiercely possessive kiss.

“You know I love you, right?” He mumbles against Draco’s lips a short while later and Draco nods.

“I know. I love you too,” He whispers and Harry captures Draco’s lips in yet another rather fiery kiss and thinks they’ve done enough talking for one evening. It’s time for the fun part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quoted song lyrics is a verse from the Take That song "Hold On", which I listened to for inspiration while writing this chapter.


	14. Heartache

When the door to the marriage room opens and Kingsley pokes his head around, Harry surreptitiously shakes his head and mouths a silent apology. Kingsley merely nods and his head disappears, giving them more time. The door closes quietly and Harry casts a harrowed glance down the corridor of the registry office.

“Forget it, he’s not coming, I knew he wouldn’t,” Draco mumbles at his side but when he goes to open the door to the marriage room, Harry quickly places his own hand on top of Draco’s and stops him.

“Just give it another minute,” he says quietly and Draco sighs but withdraws his hand and moves to stand beside his mother. Harry watches her tenderly fuss over Draco, watches her brush an invisible speck of dust off his silver-grey bespoke wedding robes and then adjust his midnight-blue tie. Miraculously, Draco allows her to fuss and Harry gives Narcissa a small smile. She nods curtly and returns the gesture. Harry casts another look down the corridor and towards the grand doors to the registry office and thinks that he absolutely couldn’t care less whether Lucius fucking Malfoy is present at his and Draco’s wedding. He is however aware that today is as much a special day for him as it is a special day for Draco, who deserves to have both his parents present on his wedding day.

Harry tries not to let his thoughts drift to his own parents, tries not to imagine what it would feel like to walk down the aisle, holding his mother’s and his father’s hand, having them stand by his side on the most important day of his life. He tries not to imagine Sirius being his best man, tries not to imagine the very embarrassing speech his godfather would give and tries not to imagine Remus Lupin smiling broadly up at him as he is about to recite his vows. Unconsciously moving closer to Molly Weasley, Harry slips his hand into hers and feels a sense of calm wash over him as she squeezes tightly. He glances as Arthur Weasley, who smiles and pats him on the back, takes a deep breath and braces himself when the doors at the end of the corridor finally open and Lucius Malfoy — _impeccably dressed in formal black robes_ — strides down the corridor and joins his wife and son.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Draco.” Lucius Malfoy apologises and Harry watches with mild astonishment as Draco’s father pulls his son into a hug and whispers something into his ear. Harry strains to hear the words, but cannot and decides that he doesn’t care what Lucius sodding Malfoy said to his son because the beaming smile on Draco’s face tells him everything he needs to know. Harry’s eyes briefly meet Lucius’ and he nods politely. Lucius Malfoy inclines his head slightly and Harry thinks that their private chat was rather useful after all.

“Potter, ready to get make the biggest mistake of your life?” Draco’s teasing distracts Harry and looking at his future husband, Harry merely rolls his eyes.

“Absolutely.”

“Not even a little scared?” Draco continues to taunt him and Harry laughs.

“You wish, Draco Malfoy. You wish,” he says, squeezes Molly’s hand and not letting go, he steps forward, and knocks on the door to the marriage room, indicating that they’re finally good to go.

> _### Standing, on the edge of forever,_
> 
> _At the start of whatever,_
> 
> _Shouting love at the world ###_

Moments later, the double doors swing open and a beautiful piece of music fills Harry’s ears, makes his heart swell and his nerves flutter. He gives Molly’s hand another squeeze, which she returns immediately and while he reaches out to take Arthur’s hand, he allows himself one last look at Draco and as their eyes look, he smiles and mouths a silent _I love you_.

Draco responds with the same three words and taking one last — _hopefully calming_ — very deep breath, Harry sets a tentative foot into the room and suddenly gripped by a wicked sense of anticipation, bravery, excitement, and an insane amount of courage, he begins to make his way down the aisle. Arthur and Molly stay close to his side and Harry is grateful to have them. Even though he honestly can’t wait to recite his vows and sign the marriage certificate, he really doesn’t think he’d be able to make it down the aisle without his adoptive parents to accompany him on the short walk up to where Kingsley Shacklebolt is waiting for him and Draco. He doesn’t quite manage to ignore the painful tug in his chest as he remembers his parents and everyone else, he lost during the war but he refuses to let it dampen his spirits. Instead, his eyes wander around the room. He finds Hermione and Ron, sat together with both their children and their broad smiles lessen the pain in his chest considerably.

As he reaches the top and Molly gently extracts her hand from his vice-like grip, Harry consoles himself with the fact that his parents and Sirius and Remus may not be here tonight but the rest of his mismatched family of choice — _everyone he loves and who loves him_ — is present and eagerly awaits his impending nuptials. Harry turns to look back at the entrance to the marriage room and as he watches Draco slowly follow him down the aisle, he momentarily forgets how to breathe. Sandwiched between his parents, he stands out like a beacon of light and his radiant handsomeness dissolve every ounce of that dull heartache in Harry’s chest. In just a few minutes he and Draco will be family, forever bound to each other. In just a few minutes both their lives will change for the better, as they promise each other to love, cherish, support, respect, and care for each other for the rest of both their natural lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics I used for this part are from "The Flood" by Take That, which I played on repeat while writing this moment.


	15. Breath-taking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> — And so begins the slow dance around each other, that finally results in that very public kiss down in Hogsmeade that I wrote about in [Chapter 7 (Tongue) of “31 Days In The Life Of Draco Malfoy”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16143017/chapters/37903682) —

“You know, flying is a much better way to take your mind off things.” Draco’s all too familiar voice startles Harry out of his thoughts. He whips his head around, momentarily stares at Draco, then averts his eyes and gazes out over the Quidditch pitch.

“How’d you find me here?” He wants to know and isn’t at all sure whether he even wants Draco here, whether he wants any company at all. The solitude of the deserted Quidditch pitch is oddly comforting. It takes the edge of the restlessness he’s been feeling as of late and can’t seem to shake, no matter what he does.

“Cast a spell to track you down,” Draco replies mockingly and Harry tenses when Draco sits down next to him. He turns his head sideways and raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Bit of a stalker, aren’t you?” He asks and Draco smirks.

“You started it, just repaying the favour.”

Harry rolls his eyes, doesn’t bother to respond, twirls his wand, clasps his hands together and wishes for the umpteenth time that he hadn’t left his gloves in his dormitory.

“Potter, you do realise that’s your wand that you’re holding there, don’t you?” Draco once again breaks the silence.

“Astonishingly smart observation, Malfoy,” Harry retorts, glances at Draco and simply waits for the taunt he knows is coming. These days — _compared to before the war_ — it fills him with glee and he anticipates it more than he probably should. There’s just something about Draco’s sharp tongue that he finds immensely entertaining and he’s surprised that he never really noticed it before. Then again, now that Draco is no longer trying to make his life miserable — _though he still very much enjoys trying to rile Harry up and Harry in return enjoys letting him get away with it_ — Harry has had the time and opportunity to notice just how witty and smart Draco really is. He’s rarely at a loss for words, always has a comeback at the ready and Harry likes this particular side of Draco much more than he cares to admit to himself.

“I am rather concerned about your sanity, I really am. Your penchant for sitting around outside in freezing temperatures is worrying. Tell me, is that a side effect of being the most famous wizard of our time?” Draco sighs and before Harry can make any attempt to make use of his wand, Draco casts the spell for him and surrounds them both with a bubble of warmth. Harrys sighs, stretches a little, gingerly puts his wand away and flexes his fingers. They tingle pleasantly as more feeling returns to them and he turns a little and smiles at Draco. “Why do you never remember to cast a warming spell? Your fingers were almost blue.” Draco accuses him and Harry grins and makes a flippant comeback.

“That’s what I have you for.”

“I am _not_ your servant, Potter,” Draco snaps, though there’s a distinct lack of malice in his voice.

“Nah, just a good friend. One who knows where I can be found when I don’t want to be found,” Harry sighs, returns to looking out over the pitch but focuses on nothing in particular. He’s grateful when Draco remains silent and doesn’t even flinch when Draco throws an arm over his shoulder. Instead, he closes his eyes and leans into the half-embrace. He isn’t quite sure whether the comfortable warmth that cocoons him is the result of the warming spell or the closeness of Draco and doesn’t at all care whether it’s appropriate for them to be sitting this close together for such an extended period of time. Sure, they’re friends, but that’s about all they are.

“I’m pretty sure Granger and Weasley know where to find you, even when you don’t want to be found,” Draco’s voice is a low murmur and it sends a pleasant tingle down Harry’s spine. He tilts his head back, turns it sideways, looks at Draco, instantly feels like he’s drowning in those piercing grey-blue eyes and forgets what he’d been about to say, can’t even remember if he’d been about to say anything at all. “However, since they spend the majority of their time locked at lips, they probably haven’t yet noticed that you never did make it into the Great Hall for lunch,” Draco adds and Harry shamelessly continues to drown in those unbelievably clear eyes and is absolutely mesmerised that Draco isn’t mocking him or breaking their eye contact.

“When did you know?” Harry eventually asks and Draco frowns at him.

“Know what? That you didn’t show up for lunch? About five minutes into the meal, why?”

“You know what I mean,” Harry sighs, even though he’s pretty sure that Draco really doesn’t. It’s not like they were talking about what he’s trying to ask Draco.

“Know what?” Draco continues to frown.

“That you, you know, like boys,” Harry mumbles and thinks he’s probably bright red in the face. Ever since last November, when Draco told him about his own sexual preferences, he’s been dying to ask more questions. Somehow, he, however, never did manage to work up the courage to actually do so. He suspects that, on a few occasions, Draco probably noticed but miraculously he did never push, never made a taunting remark, and most certainly never brought up the subject himself. Harry isn’t quite sure why, but he’s most definitely grateful for Draco’s propriety.

“Oh that. Fourth year, well third year really, but forth year I was bold enough to experiment,” Draco answers without as much as batting an eyelid and Harry frowns, wonders why Draco is so oddly forthcoming with the information and doesn’t question his sudden inquisitiveness, especially given the nature of the subject he’s asking about.

“How?” Harry pushes.

“Communal showers are a rather marvellous thing; don’t you think so? You see all sorts of interesting things,” Draco smirks and Harry doesn’t really know what to say. It’s not like he never peeked, and it’s not like he never had a quick wank in his shower cubicle, it’s just that he doesn’t remember taking a great interest in his naked and wet housemates. His mind provides him with — _or so it thinks_ — a helpful flashback but Harry merely shudders and pushes the images away. When his mind, however, supplies him with a fantasy image of Draco, naked and in the shower, it is more than he can handle, especially with Draco sitting this close to him. “I wondered when you might pluck up the courage to ask me,” Draco speaks again and his low voice does all sorts of unspeakable to Harry. He averts his eyes, stares at the floor instead and bites his lips. His cheeks are hot with embarrassment and he feels stupid and doesn’t quite understand why he can’t seem to control his body.

Harry also doesn’t know what else to say and so for the longest time he just sits in silence and is thankful that Draco is willing to keep him company, even if half of him wants to push Draco away because he’s the very reason he’s spent the last few months in a state of perpetual confusion.

Eventually, Harry does find it in him to say the words he’s been dying to say for the last few weeks, because, _damnit_ , he just needs somebody to listen to him say those words. Needs somebody to hear them, so that he can stop feeling like he’s about to explode, so that he can stop feeling weighted down by the secret that’s been mercilessly clawing at him, not allowing him a moment’s peace. He thinks he’s been rather good about keeping it all inside, but he doesn’t want to any longer. He doesn’t even know if he’s certain about all those feelings he’s been having, but he just wants to say them aloud, wants to try them on for size, wants to know what it feels like to admit to it. “I think I like boys too,” he whispers rather sheepishly. Right this moment he feels smaller than he ever did in his entire life, feels like he’s not the same person who vanquished Voldemort and wonders why admitting to liking boys is more difficult than drawing a wand and killing the Dark Lord. When Draco doesn’t say anything, Harry gives in to his curiosity and looks up. He finds Draco smiling at him and frowns. “Say something,” he urges.

“What would you like me to say?” Draco asks and Harry wonders if that’s curiosity or amusement that’s twinkling in Draco’s eyes.

“Anything,” Harry shrugs and his breath hitches up when Draco leans a little closer.

“I had my suspicions for about a year or two, but I only really knew when I saw you watching those Ravenclaw boys kiss,” he says.

Harry frowns, narrows his eyes, and feels rather vexed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Not my place to say anything, Harry. Whether you like boys or girls or both or neither, that’s entirely your decision to make and I’ll be damned if I take that right away from you. It’s also your choice to decide when you’re ready to tell other people,” Draco explains and Harry’s facial features soften instantly. A treacherous little voice in his head tries to tell him that he should want to kiss Draco for being such a complete gentleman and respecting his privacy.

“You could have taunted me about it before, you know…” Harry says softly but Draco shakes his head.

“Nuh-huh, even Slytherins have a bottom line, Potter. Taunting you about your ineptitude at potions is one thing, taunting you about your sexuality, well that’s a line I never would have crossed,” Draco states and Harry marvels at the sincerity in Draco’s eyes. That treacherous little voice in his head reminds him once again that kissing Draco would be a very good idea and he unconsciously finds himself licking his lips and doesn’t flinch when Draco leans another little bit closer. He’s now close enough for Harry to feel his breath on his face and it makes him flush again, and _goddamnit_ , Harry’s bloody fed up of going crimson and feeling like his face is about to burn up. “So, who was your first kiss then?”

“Cho Chang, fifth year,” Harry’s addled brain supplies the information instantly and Draco rolls his eyes at him.

“Not your _first_ first kiss, you dolt,” he reprimands, “your first gay kiss.”

“I…I—” Harry stammers, blushes furiously and wonders if that’s at all possible because he’s sure he’s already gone scarlet.  
  
“Don’t tell me you haven’t actually tried to snog anyone…?” Draco’s looks at him with an utterly baffled expression and Harry sighs.

“I’m pretty sure if I’d recently tried to snog a bloke, you’d have read about it in _The Prophet_ ,” he says, feeling just a little exasperated and Draco’s amused chuckle does nothing to calm his irritation.

“Close your eyes, Harry,” he whispers and Harry really doesn’t want to, but obeys anyway. When Draco’s breath ghosts over his lips, he shudders and snaps his eyes open again, stares into Draco’s eyes and feel dizzier than he’s ever felt in his entire life. “You better remember this, Potter, because you won’t be reading about it in _The Prophet_ ,” Draco murmurs and before Harry can protest, he feels Draco’s lips pressing against his own. His eyes flutter closed, his mind goes blank and what feels like a million butterflies break free inside his stomach and flutter about with unrestrained pleasure. Harry finds himself moving his lips ever so slightly and Draco responds. They kiss for what feels like hours — _although Harry knows that, in reality, it’s only a few minutes_ — and when Draco attempts to pull away, attempts to break the kiss, he whimpers, shuffles into a more comfortable position and threads his fingers through Draco’s soft blond hair and tries to stop him.

He nearly melts when the tip of Draco’s warm, wet tongue teasingly, but with a sense of hesitancy, swipes across his lips. Harry moans softly, parts his lips ever so slightly and boldly seeks out Draco’s tongue with his own. As their tongues connect, stars explode in front of Harry’s closed eyes and he knows, _simply knows_ why kissing Cho was so utterly awful and kissing Ginny always felt like such an effort. This, kissing Draco, it doesn’t feel like an effort at all, it feels utterly right, perfectly wonderful and all sorts of amazing. Harry isn’t even shocked to learn that he can’t quite get enough of kissing Draco, who ever so subtly is in charge of the entire kiss, even though he manages to trick Harry into believing that it's him who’s setting the pace.

With their tongues boldly sliding together, duelling leisurely, Harry feels that their kiss is slowly growing out of hand but doesn’t think he has it in him to put an end to this utopian moment. He is, therefore, grateful when Draco gently ends the kiss, withdraws, and leaves him with the memory of an absolutely perfect first kiss. Suddenly, Harry knows exactly which gender he prefers.

He allows himself a dazed moment to savour the kiss for all eternity and then allows his eyes to flutter open. He stares at Draco, completely gobsmacked and when Draco smiles at him he breaks into a broad grin and laughs when Draco tells him that he’s certifiably gay.

“Thank you,” Harry whispers and Draco shrugs gently.

“You’re welcome,” he replies and Harry thinks that Draco wants to say something else but when he doesn’t, Harry doesn’t push. Instead, he rests his head on Draco’s shoulder, looks out over the Quidditch pitch, and thinks that this kiss, his first _real_ kiss — _the one that made him actually feel something_ — beats catching the Snitch during a match.


	16. Rain

“Fucking imbecile of an Auror trainee! Fuck this weather, fuck this country and fucking fuck international magical cooperation!” Harry grumbles into the beard, he hadn’t planned to grow but can’t seem to convince himself to get rid of, and winces. He’s soaked to the skin and his department-issued dragonhide boots squelch uncomfortably with each step that he takes. On top of that he’s also covered in dirt, mud, and a thick slimy substance he doesn’t even care to identify but which smells so bad it makes him want to vomit up the contents of his stomach. He itches to blast the door to his hotel room open but doesn’t because it’s a Muggle establishment and the last he needs is to cause a ruckus and break the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. Instead, he keeps his wand sheathed, uses his hotel-issued key card to unlock the door to his hotel suite and steps inside, lets the door fall closed, bends down to take off his boots and scourgifies them thoroughly and quite possibly with a little too much enthusiasm. Once they’re shiny and clean he levitates them to their usual place next to his suitcase and eyes himself in the floor-length mirror in the hallway of his hotel suite.

He grimaces, doesn’t even bother to try to clean his clothes or take them off, but banishes them with a rather vexed wandless spell. Even naked, he’s still covered in muck and with a groan, Harry places his wand on the kitchenette counter and heads through to his bedroom and into the en-suite bathroom. He steps into the large shower, turns the water on and waits a moment for the water to heat up. When steam begins to fill the room, he steps under the powerful water jets, closes his eyes, and allows the water to cascade down over him, slowly washing away all the evidence of a practice duel gone horribly wrong. _Nutter wouldn’t last a day in my department_ , Harry thinks to himself, then resolutely forces his mind to go blank and allows the never-ending stream of hot water to gradually ease the tension in his body and his annoyance at being stuck in America, on a working exchange that has already been extended twice and is only getting worse with each passing day.

When his mood begins to improve somewhat, he slicks his hair back, opens his eyes, steps away from the shower jets, and reaches for the shower gel he’s brought along from home. It actually belongs to Draco, and as the familiar scent gently assaults his nostrils, he relaxes some more, lathers his entire body with way too much of the stuff and thinks that it almost makes him feel as though Draco is hugging him. He takes a childish delight in the soapsuds, reaches for the shower brush, and scrubs the remaining dirt off his body. For his hair, he uses Draco’s shampoo, washes his hair twice and then once more just to be absolutely sure that it’s perfectly clean and free of whatever slimy stuff, his duelling partner inadvertently showered him with.

Once clean and smelling of Draco — _which really just makes Harry miss him a lot more than he already does, which he thinks isn’t at all possible_ — Harry turns the water off, steps out of the shower and ties a towel around his waist, letting it ride low on his hips. He grabs another towel, attempts to dry his hair and pats into his bedroom, determined to spend the evening watching crap American TV soap operas and eating his dinner in bed. He is about to reach for the remote control on his bed, to turn on the TV, when a knock at his hotel room door startles him. Harry grimaces, doesn’t think that he’s in the mood to deal with anyone from the American Auror team, but heads out through the living room and into the hallway to open the door anyway. As he reaches for the door handle, he fervently hopes that his state of undress will shoo away his unwanted visitor, but isn’t at all prepared for the sight that greets him when he does finally pull the door open.

“I was told someone’s desperate for homemade British treacle tart and a bottle of good old Firewhiskey,” Draco grins, holding a plate, covered with aluminium foil, in his right hand and a bottle of highly-potent Firewhiskey in his left hand.

Harry gaps, eyes wide with shock. “How did you get here?” he asks.

“Same as you, International Portkey?” Draco offers and Harry shudders at the appreciative once-over he gets from his husband, who’s travelled all the way across the Atlantic just to bring him alcohol and his beloved treacle tart. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Draco smirks, tugs the bottle of Firewhiskey under his right arm, and casually snaps his fingers. Harry shrieks and stares in horror at his towel that’s now lying on the floor, leaving him in all but his birthday suit. The damp towel, which he used to dry his hair, is still in his hand. “Now that’s a much better welcome,” Draco laughs, eyes so dark with hunger and lust that Harry swallows hard and forgets how to move, forgets how to talk. Thankfully, Draco doesn’t wait for Harry to regain control over his manners and step aside. Instead, he pushes his way into the room and lets the door fall closed behind him.

Harry watches him cast a wandless locking spell, watches him cast what he knows to be a silencing charm and watches him put the plate and bottle down on top of the kitchenette’s counter. The second Draco’s hands are free, Harry remembers how to move and all but pounces on Draco, slams him into the nearest wall and kisses him roughly and possessively. He thanks his lucky stars for Draco’s perceptiveness, for his ability to read between the lines and correctly decipher his owls. He thanks his lucky stars for Draco dropping all his own commitments, jumping across the pond to bring him his favourite dessert and his favourite British liquor. He thanks his lucky stars that Draco doesn’t even attempt to block of the assault, but probably expected it. He twists both his hands into Draco’s coat, holds on tightly, doesn’t stop his assault on Draco’s lips, ignores his burning lungs, and drags Draco into the bedroom. He roughly pushes him onto the bed, snaps his fingers to divest his husband of all his clothes and clicks his tongue when Draco laughs. The sound sends bolts of lightning jolting through Harry’s body and makes his cock twitch in desperate anticipation. With a growl, Harry climbs after him, attacks every inch of skin he can reach, trails wet, slobbery kisses down Draco’s torso and thinks six weeks is way too long to be forced to go without ravishing the most handsome man to ever walk the earth.

That is Harry’s last coherent thought and with an almost pathetic little whimper, he swallows nearly the entire length of Draco’s cock and groans with delight as Draco’s familiar taste spreads across his tongue. He bobs his head, sets a fast and unforgiving rhythm and moans wantonly when Draco’s hands wind themselves into his messy, damp hair and hold him into place as he thrusts into Harry’s willing mouth.

When the taste in his mouth begins to change, Harry resolutely pulls away, crawls up to look at Draco, who’s staring up at him with black, hungry eyes. “Fuck me,” he begs shamelessly and Draco growls. Harry lets Draco throw him onto the bed, reaches up to grab hold of the iron-wrought headboard and knows that this will be hard, fast, unforgiving, and not at all pretty. Then again, hard, fast, unforgiving, and not at all pretty is exactly what Harry wants, what he so desperately needs. He gasps when Draco’s lube-slicken fingers insistently push into him, relaxes and groans when he realises that Draco’s pushed two fingers in all at once. It hurts and it burns and Harry throws his head back, groans and pants but doesn’t tell Draco to stop. Quite the contrary. “Fuck yes, Draco, need you so fucking bad,” he pants and Draco’s amused chuckle makes his cock twitch.

“I can tell,” he murmurs, his mouth inches from Harry’s and Harry forces his eyes open, forces himself to look at Draco, who’s kneeling above him, mercilessly fucking him with two of his fingers, shoving them deep inside him and twisting them around to press against that sweet spot deep inside of him that makes Harry’s toes curl and his entire body shudder and shake. “You’re just gagging for it, aren’t you, Potter, you need this so bad, don’t you?” Draco taunts him and Harry grips the headboard harder, grits his teeth and lets out a low guttural snarl. “Tell me how much you want this and I’ll give it to you,” Draco pushes him, twists his fingers around attacks Harry’s prostate, once, twice, three times.

“I —,” Harry tries but the words catch in his throat and he whimpers when Draco withdraws his fingers, flips him onto his front and forces him on all fours.

“Tell me,” Draco insists and wraps his slippery fingers around Harry’s cock, grips it tight and strokes it.

“Please —, Draco, fuck —, don’t play, I — I can’t, pleeeease,” Harry moans, trembles, and actually screams in delight when Draco pushes his cock into him, pushes all the way in, stretches him, fills him.

Their liaison is painfully short but Harry doesn’t care, thinks it’s perfect anyway and once again thanks his lucky stars for Draco saving him from having a mental breakdown.

Several minutes later, they both lie on the bed, limbs splayed out in all directions, bodies sweaty, chests heaving, mouths open and lips swollen.

Harry, starry-eyed, thoroughly sated and floating on a cloud of bliss, turns his head slightly, looks at Draco and laughs softly, “you’re the best husband in the world.”

Draco grudgingly rolls onto his side and smirks. “Naturally,” he says with the utmost conviction and Harry kicks him lazily, flicks his hand to summon that treacle tart and the Firewhiskey and pulls himself into a sort of seated position with his back resting against several pillows. His arse stings rather unpleasantly and summoning his wand, he transfigures the pencil on his nightstand into a fork, removes the aluminium foil and assaults the treacle tart Draco’s brought him.

On his third mouthful, he catches Draco watching him intently and the twinkle in those stormy grey-blue eyes makes him chuckle.

“It’s fucking delicious,” Harry speaks with his mouth still full of tart, catches a few stray crumbs with his tongue and just generally makes a bit of a mess of the bed.

“Pig,” Draco rolls his eyes at him and Harry shrugs.

“You married me anyway,” he says with complete indifference.

“Don’t make me regret coming here,” Draco warns him, but Harry merely laughs at that response, amused that Draco would choose to say that instead of insinuating his regrets about their nuptials three years ago.

“You were just as desperate, my love,” he teases and quickly moves out of the way when Draco attempts to kick him. He whines as his arse protests, doesn’t manage to escape the inevitable stinging hex but ignores it and continues to wolf down his favourite dessert of all time.


	17. Leaves

Harry stops his slow, casual stroll, crouches down and reaches out to pick up a beautifully-shaped bright-golden acorn leaf with thick, blood-red veins. He twirls the stem between his thumb and index finger and turns his head slightly to look back at Draco, who has stopped several feet behind him and waves at him with a warm yellow maple leaf. Harry smiles and watches as Draco elegantly draws his wand out of its wrist holster. He transfigures the fallen autumn leaf in his hand into a large maple-leaf-shaped piece of parchment, then flicks his wand, conjures a self-inking quill and Harry intently watches him scribble a short note onto the parchment in his hand. Once finished, he vanishes the quill, folds the parchment into an elaborate origami and infuses it with magic with the help of his wand and a mumbled. The parchment-butterfly flutters in the air, Draco swishes his wand and it dance-glides over to Harry, who gets to his feet and reaches for it almost automatically.

He unfolds it and smirks at the words written on it.

 _I’ve got a surprise for you, should be here_ , shortly, the note reads and Harry jumps with a start when the parchment in his hand bursts into flames and disappears before his very eyes.

A moment later a single golden Phoenix tail feather falls from above and sails right into his hand. Harry frowns, twists it thoughtfully around and shoots Draco a look of pure confusion. Draco merely shrugs as though to say that it’s not his doing but Harry doesn’t believe him, not one bit. He gently runs his fingers along the smooth feather, marvelling at its softness. He freaks a little when the feather, too, bursts into flames but stands in awe at Draco’s casual display of magic.

He’s about to walk back to where Draco is still standing when the very familiar piercing cry of a very familiar bird — _one he hasn’t seen since the night Dumbledore died_ — causes him to freeze in his tracks. He looks up at the sky and actually forgets how to breathe properly. His mouth drops open, and he watches as a swan-sized scarlet-red Phoenix slowly descends from the skies and gracefully lands on the leaf-covered ground in front of him. Harry sinks to his knees, feels the tears prick at the corners of his eyes and reaches out to touch the stunning bird.

“Fawkes,” he breathes and the Phoenix inclines his head, tilts it towards Harry’s hand and nudges him gently with his golden beak. “Merlin, Fawkes, how have you been, my old friend? Where did you come from?” Harry whispers and Fawkes turns his head toward Draco. Harry follows the movement with his eyes and stares, speechless.

“I knew nothing could ever replace Hedwig, so I didn’t even try,” Draco, who has silently moved closer to them both, says softly, “took me a while to track him down, but I managed. I don’t know if he’ll stay, Phoenixes rather have a mind of their own, but at least he came.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say, isn’t even mortified that his cheeks are streaked with hot, salty tears, and a wretched, painful sob forces itself past the thick lump in his throat and past his lips. His shoulders slump forward and he doesn’t move when Fawkes spreads his wings and engulfs him in a tender embrace. Harry doesn’t even know why he’s crying, only knows that he can’t bring himself to stop, can’t find it in him to stop shaking. It is only when Fawkes breaks into a beautiful song that he slowly calms and his sobs subside, but Fawkes keeps him wrapped up in his massive wings.

“Stay, Fawkes, I beg you, stay,” Harry mumbles and Fawkes continues to sing, continues to calm him, continues to keep him sheltered until all his tears have gone dry and he starts to feel more like himself again. He thinks it feels a little like being reborn and Harry has absolutely no idea whether Fawkes understood his plea but feels too raw to contemplate the matter. Instead, he takes a deep breath and when Fawkes slowly releases him and folds his wings, Harry rises to his feet and takes a long and hard look at Draco. “How did you keep this from me?” he asks and frowns when Draco looks rather sheepish.

“First time ever I used Occlumens around you,” he admits and for a moment Harry is torn between wanting to hex Draco into oblivion and wanting to pick him up and kissing him until they’re both breathless. He chooses neither of the two options but narrows his eyes as if to tell Draco that if he does it again, there’ll be hell to pay.

“How did you find him?”

“Wasn’t easy, I can tell you that much,” Draco smiles, “took a lot of letter-writing to anyone and everyone who knew Dumbledore and several well-known Magizoologists in Egypt, India and China as well as several trips to Dumbledore’s grave where I spent hours and hours fervently thinking about Fawkes and how I desperately needed him to appear.”

“Did that work?” Harry asks, looks down at Fawkes and thinks that surely Phoenixes aren’t telepathic and wouldn’t be able to read minds. Then again, back in his second year at Hogwarts, Fawkes did know that he needed help and came to him down in the Chamber of Secrets…

“Nope, he appeared at the Manor last week though, appeared right out of nowhere while I was having tea with mother. Scared her half to death, too. Had to get one of the elves to force some calming draught down her throat. Turns out, it was the first mother ever saw a Phoenix up close and it frightened the living daylights out of her.”

Harry chuckles, glances at Fawkes and thinks that the bird is looking rather indignant at being accused to have caused such mayhem. “Fawkes, never pegged you for such a bad boy,” He teases and the Phoenix almost instantly nips him in the leg. It’s not overly painful and Harry thinks that Fawkes held back on purpose. He reaches out to pet Fawkes but the Phoenix pulls away, pierces him with his coal-black eyes and squeaks, affronted. “It’s alright, Fawkes, nobody’s blaming you, I was just teasing,” Harry apologies, tries to pet Fawkes again and is surprised to find that this time Fawkes actually leans into the touch, clearly appeased by Harry’s apology. He turns his attention back to Draco, quirks a questioning eyebrow and silently asks him to continue with his story.

Draco obliges, “I sat down to have a chat with him after taking care of mother. Well, not really a chat, I talked and I suppose he listened. At least he didn’t leave until after I was finished. I asked him if he remembered you, and told him a lot about us and well I asked if he might like to come live with us, keep you company and all. Since he’s here now, I reckon it’s a yes, though I don’t know exactly how long he’s going to stay.”

“You are something else, Draco Malfoy,” Harry shakes his head and taking two steps toward Draco, he pulls him into a tight hug. “Best surprise ever,” he whispers and Draco’s soft chuckle sends a pleasant tingle down his spine. He tilts his head back, looks at Draco, takes a moment to drink in the sight, then leans in press his lips against Draco’s. “Thank you, a million times thank you,” he mumbles, then deepens the kiss and for a split moment, he forgets about everything around them and just drowns in the moment. He’s not sure how he deserves to be with a man who quite obviously understands him better than he understands himself, and feels blessed, truly blessed.


	18. Love

Harry sighs, leans back, throws his arms over the back of his office chair, and stretches his feet under his desk. He glares at the pile of memos to his left and desperately longs to set them on fire. Along with it, he also very much wants to set fire to the pile of open case files on his desk and wonders whether accepting that promotion to Head Auror was a mistake after all. He thinks he’s too young to be shouldering that much responsibility. So far, the only benefit of overseeing the Auror Department is the fact that he finally has his own office. He sighs again, reaches for his by now cold — _and rather weak_ — coffee and stares into the cup. He can’t bring himself to take a sip, sets the cup down again and is about to reach for another memo when a knock on his office door stops him.

“Come in,” he calls and the door is pushed open instantly. Doralee, his brand-new secretary, steps inside. She’s armed with a pile of post and — _thank Merlin!_ — a large cup of coffee from Doctor Espresso Caffetteria — _as of late his favourite coffee shop, all thanks to Draco, of course_ — as well as a bag of his favourite pastries. At least he hopes the bag contains his favourite pastries

“Mr Potter, sir, your morning post arrived,” she smiles, walks up to his desk and hands him his mail. Harry frowns, wants to remind her to start calling him Harry already but is far too distracted by the coffee and bag of pastries she’s holding. “This came by special delivery. Mr Malfoy sends his regards, I presume,” she adds, hands him his coffee, which has a note attached to it and leaves the bag of pastries on his desk. Harry takes a large sip of the coffee, only just about manages to swallow an indecent moan and smiles at his secretary.

“Doralee, you’re a godsend!” he exclaims and she laughs.

“I didn’t send the coffee, Mr Malfoy did, you should probably tell him that,” she says, turns on her heels and leaves his office. Harry takes another sip of coffee, then detaches Draco’s note from his coffee cup and unfolds the paper.

> _I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But I love you very much. Enjoy. ~D x_

Harry reads the note several times over, runs his fingers over Draco’s elegantly slanted handwriting and grins stupidly. Ever since his promotion Draco’s been sending him daily surprises. It’s not always coffee and it’s not always food, but there’s always a silly note attached to it. Harry doesn’t know why Draco does it, hasn’t asked him about it and doesn’t take the gesture for granted, but thinks that for the past month he’s been falling in love with Draco over and over again. He reckons he’s being silly and feeling rather sentimental, Harry draws his wand, unlocks the top left drawer of his desk, pulls it open and reaches inside. He takes out a pile of notes — _all nineteen of them_ — and takes a moment to carefully reread every single one of them. When he arrives at the last one, the one he received today, he’s made up his made, has made an important decision, one he’s been thinking about for quite a while already. He folds up all the notes, returns them into the drawer and rises to his feet. He purposely forgoes his department-issued scarlet Auror robes in favour of a plain Muggle jacket, grabs his coffee and exits his office. He tells Doralee that he’s going out for the rest of the day and before she can protest and remind him of some meeting or other — _that he really doesn’t want to attend_ — he rushes down the long corridor and quickly leaves the Department of Magical Law Enforcement behind.

The trip down to the Atrium is quick and he floos straight to Diagon Alley, heads for Gringotts, makes a very large withdrawal from his vault and exchanges the sack of gold for a horrendously large pile of British Pounds. He carefully stows the money in the inside pocket of his jacket, leaves Gringotts, leaves Diagon Alley and ducks into a dark alleyway nearby. From there he apparates straight to one of the designated apparition points near Brompton Road in Knightsbridge and braves the large throng of shopping Muggles. He makes his way to Harrods, enters London’s most famous department store and heads for Tiffany & Co, Draco’s favourite jewellery shop. Once inside, he looks around and is very glad when he’s approached by a very helpful shop assistant — _with beautiful long auburn hair and warm chocolate-brown eyes_ — who asks him what he’s looking for.

Harry tries to explain and as he does, her smile grows and she leads him to a large exhibit of beautiful platinum wedding bands. He stares at them for the longest time, feels lost and suddenly wonders if he’s doing the right thing. The shop assistant seems to sense his hesitation and she asks him a few casual questions about his and Draco’s relationship. He divulges the information freely and watches her reach inside the jewellery display. She takes out a plain, six-millimetre-wide platinum wedding band with a double mille-grain design — _or so she tells him, not that he really knows what that means_ — and places the ring gently in his outstretched hand. Frozen, Harry looks at the ring and the more he does, the more he’s reminded of his very first trip to Diagon Alley when Mr Ollivander handed him his very first wand.

“The ring chooses its owner, Mr Potter,” the shop assistant whispers quietly and Harry stares at her.

“You’re a witch?” he asks and she nods.

“I think this ring’s chosen you, Mr Potter, and I assure you Mr Malfoy will like it as much as you do,” she smiles and Harry nods, closes his fist around the cool metal in his hand and takes a deep breath. He isn’t sure whether he actually has the nerve to go through with his mad plan but something is compelling him to make the purchase and so he nods, returns the ring to the shop assistant and asks her for the price. He doesn’t even flinch when she tells him the amount and accepts her whispered offer of taking the ring back into the workshop to magically infuse it with an engraving. She asks him what he wants her to engrave into the ring and he leans in and whispers a single word. She nods, disappears with the ring and as he waits Harry thinks he’s gone completely barking mad. A part of him wants to make a run for it and he shoves his hands into his outer jacket pockets, clenches his fists and waits. He has to consciously remind himself not to pace back and forth and wonders exactly when his nerves are going to get the better of him. He feels faint, a little dizzy even, and is most grateful when another shop assistant offers him a glass of water. He takes it, sips the cool water carefully and continues to wait.

Several moments — _though to Harry they feel like hours_ — later, the shop assistant returns and hands him a stunning light-medium robin egg blue ring box. He opens it, stares at the ring, takes it out and marvels at the exquisite engravement. The shop assistant — _Sissy her name, Harry notes quietly_ — doesn’t ask him to return the ring to her as she prepares his receipt. Soon after, he hands her an obscene amount of cash — _three-thousand-and-two-hundred British Pounds to be exact_ — and pockets the ring. He leaves after she promises him not to breathe a word to anyone. Harry doesn’t quite know why but trusts her and leaves.

Once outside, he takes a large gulp of air, swallows it down and holds his breath until his lungs burn in protest and he feels dizzy and light-headed. Only then he exhales very slowly and breathes normally. He doesn’t trust himself to apparate, is quite sure he’d splinch himself if he tried, and starts walking. He knows that he could take the tube home or flag down a taxi, but he does neither. Instead, he walks. He walks all the way from Brompton Road in Knightsbridge to Grimmauld Place in Islington. He gets lost twice and it takes him well over three hours before he walks down the familiar street towards the home, he’s been sharing with Draco for the past several years. He’s spent the entire walk home clutching the ring box in his pocket, thinking of what to say, but the moment he unlocks the front door and steps inside, he bins the entire speech he’s prepared in his head.

He takes off his jacket, takes off his boots and ring box in hand, he searches the house and eventually finds Draco in the kitchen, making tea. He shoves the ring box into his trouser pocket, hugs Draco from behind, buries his face in the crook of Draco’s neck and inhales deeply. A sense of calmness settles over him and his heart wins over his brain. _It’s the right thing to do_ , he thinks to himself.

“You’re home early,” Draco states and Harry doesn’t say anything. He simply hugs Draco tighter, holds on to him as though he is his lifeline and relishes in the moment.

Draco, of course, lets him, just like he always does and after several minutes, Harry slowly loosens his hold on Draco, “turn around,” he whispers and Draco quietly obliges. Harry gazes into Draco’s piercing grey-blue eyes, feels dizzy and boldly steals a kiss. Draco responds and Harry moans softly when Draco runs his fingers through his messy black hair.

It takes Harry every ounce of determination he has to pull away from the kiss and reaching into his trouser pocket, he takes Draco’s left hand and gracefully bends down onto one knee, watches the confusion in Draco’s eyes, watches realisation strike like a bolt of lightning, watches Draco trying to protest and shakes his head. He flicks the ring box open, reveals the stunning wedding band to Draco and takes a deep breath.

“Marry me,” he whispers, looks up at Draco, watches his eyes fill with tears, feels him grip his hand tighter. “Marry me,” he repeats, his voice unwavering. He watches the tears spill over the rim of Draco’s eyes, watches his bottom lip quiver, watches him nod, watches him try to hold back a choked sob and catches him in his arms when he sinks to his knees.

“Yes,” Draco whispers, “yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes,” he says and Harry pulls him into a fierce embrace and sheds a few silent tears. He relishes in Draco’s closeness and doesn’t pull away for what feels like hours and when he does, it’s only to remove the ring from the box to show Draco the engraving, which reads _TRUST_ , spelt in all capital letters. He smiles when a fresh wave of tears spills over the rim of Draco’s eyes, places the ring on the ring finger of Draco’s left hand, kisses the tears away and finally claims Draco’s lips in a searing hot kiss.


	19. Watch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go read [Chapter 28 (Dirty Talk) of 31 Days in the Life of Draco Malfoy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16143017/chapters/38486009), then continue with this one, it's a direct continuation of the scene, only it's from Harry's POV, of course. You'll enjoy this chapter without reading Draco's POV too, but Draco's POV will give you a bit more background into the scene, I think.

“Are you going to join me or do you want to watch?” Harry asks cockily and quirks a questioning eyebrow at Draco, who’s stood in the doorway of their bedroom, gripping the doorknob so hard that his knuckles have gone white. Harry drinks in the sight of Draco, watches him lick his lips with obvious appreciation and shudders when Draco answers his question with a breathy, quivering single-worded answer.

“Watch,” Draco says and Harry squeezes the base of his cock firmly to stop himself from coming right there and then. The novelty that he can reduce Draco to this, that his body still has that effect on Draco — _even seven, eight years into their relationship_ — still hasn’t worn off and Draco looking at him, eyes full of lust and want and need are almost too much for Harry to take. He fervently hopes that they never ever lose that spark, no matter how many years pass between them. He takes a moment to compose himself, fills his lungs with oxygen and keeps his eyes locked on Draco’s. He lets go of his cock, props himself up on his elbows and bends one leg at the knee. Draco is practically devouring him with his eyes now and it makes Harry’s cock twitch with anticipation.

“Tell me what to do then,” Harry breathes, licks his suddenly dry lips, and patiently waits for Draco make his request.

“Pinch your nipples,” Draco orders, his voice low, breathy, and dripping with want. Harry bites his lips, shifts his weight from both elbows onto one and slowly runs his fingertips from the centre of his chest to his left nipple. He applies a bit of pressure, runs his fingertip around the darkened flesh, shudders and catches the tender nub between his thumb and forefinger. He rolls it between his fingers, squeezes softly, increases the pressure, sucks in a sharp breath and whimpers. He keeps his eyes locked on Draco’s, repeats the action, then brings his index finger up to his lips and sucks it into his mouth. He wets it thoroughly, coats his right nipple with the warm wetness and flicks his finger repeatedly over the rapidly hardening nub. He feels his cheeks flush, drags his bottom lip into his mouth, bites down hard, catches his nipple between his index finger and his thumb and pinches it. He swallows a whimper, watches Draco wet his lips and knows exactly what he’s thinking, knows exactly what Draco is thinking about assaulting his nipples with his lips, teeth, and tongue.

“Touch yourself,” Draco whispers and Harry wants to sneak his hand down to his cock but Draco shakes his head, “no, not there,” he forbids and Harry sighs, reaches for the abandoned quill further up the bed and flicks its feathery end it over his lips. They tingle pleasantly and he lets the feather glide along his jawline to the side of his neck, brushes that sweet spot just behind his earlobe and moans softly.

“I wish it was you, touching me, your fingers, your lips, your mouth,” he admits boldly and smiles when Draco smirks but does nothing to actually indulge him. Harry sighs and continues to let the quill feather tease his heated, flushed skin. He runs the feather down his chest, flicks it over his nipples, runs uneven patterns down his quivering abdominal muscles and stills just before he reaches his groin. He raises an eyebrow at Draco, silently asks for permission and doesn’t quite manage to swallow a frustrated groan when he doesn’t get it. He shudders with anticipation when Draco crosses the room, sits down on the edge of the bed, and takes the quill feather off him.

Harry expectantly watches him twirl it between his long, slender fingers and whimpers when Draco runs it down his side, along the curve of his hipbone and down to his thigh, along the inside of this thigh. Draco pointedly avoids the one part where Harry wants to be touched the most, wants to touch himself the most. He’s been hard for a painfully long time and he craves sweet release, hungers for it, and struggles to contain himself, hovering just over the edge, fighting a never-ending battle of wills.

“Bet I can make you come with just this,” Draco whispers and Harry doesn’t even bother to deny it, he knows Draco could. He hisses when Draco brushes the quill feather against his cock, strokes along the length of it, repeatedly and teases him. Sweet mother of Merlin!

“Dra—Draco, I… _fuck_ ,” Harry’s voice breaks on his first attempt to speak, he shudders and moans. His cock twitches excitedly and the sensory overload of the simple touch, of the ravenous look in Draco’s eyes, well, it’s almost too much for him.

“Don’t you dare,” Draco warns him, “you will only come when I say so,” he sounds almost menacing and it doesn’t at all help Harry to control himself. He falls back onto the bed, his arm too tired to support his upper body’s weight and twisting his fingers into the bedsheets beneath him, Harry arches his back, thrusts his hips upward and groans when Draco drops the feather onto the bed. He is painfully aware of the fact that Draco still hasn’t touched him and it frustrates him but he can’t bring himself to regret his deviant little game. He watches Draco get up and slowly unbutton his shirt, watches him slide it off his shoulders and watches it drop to the floor. He watches Draco undo his belt buckle with steady fingers, watches draw the belt slowly out of its loops, watches him expertly undo the top button of his trousers and drag the zipper down. The sound sends a shudder of excitement down Harry’s spine and as Draco lets his trouser slide down his legs, revealing his black satin boxer briefs, Harry licks his lips.

Draco’s erection is straining against its confines and the wet patch at the front leaves Harry with no doubt as to how turned on Draco is. He reaches out, wants to touch Draco but finds his hand gently slapped away. He pulls a face and Draco laughs, the sound warm and pleasant to Harry’s ear.

“I can wait,” Draco tells him, “I want to see you touch yourself, go on, do it, make yourself feel good,” he says, hooks his two fingers into the waistband of his boxer briefs and pulls them off his hips with one fluid motion. Harry’s mouth goes dry and he whimpers, wants Draco’s cock so badly that he’s about ready to beg for it. But Draco wants to watch him, wants to see him touching himself, wants a show and Harry is desperate to give him one.

Harry closes his eyes, takes a moment to compose himself, opens his eyes again and locks them onto Draco’s. He reaches above his head, pulls a phial of lube from underneath his pillow and idly toys with it while he lets the flat of his hand glide down his chest, damp with a thin sheen of sweat. He runs his fingers through his coarse black pubic hair and grabs his cock, flicks the phial of lube open with his other hand and lets the thick, transparent liquid drip over his hand, coating it and his cock. He strokes himself leisurely, spreads the warm substance all over his cock and feels it drip down to his balls and slide in-between his arse cheeks. He keeps his eyes locked on Draco’s, smiles, and strokes himself, lazily, gripping his cock firmly but not too firmly. He expertly tips the rest of the phial of lube over, lets it run into the palm of his free hand and brings that one down to his balls, massages them and lets a single digit slip behind them, in-between the crack of his arse cheeks and slowly works it to his hole, rubbing over the tender skin behind his balls.

He drinks in the expression on Draco’s face, watches him lick his lips, watches how his eyes follow wherever his hands go and spreads his legs a little further to give Draco an unadulterated view. The moan that slips past Draco’s lips is delectable and Harry watches with delight as Draco’s hand begins to twitch, desperate to touch himself, to mirror what he’s seeing. He does, however, resist, balls his hands into fists and keeps his arms dangling at his sides. Harry smirks, circles the sensitive, tight ring of skin around his hole with his lube-slicken finger, massages the muscle until he feels himself relax. He takes a deep breath, slowly breaches himself and pushes into the tight, velvety heat, moaning at the sheer pleasure of it.

“I want you, want you so bad, want your cock to fill me up,” he whispers, whimpers and moans, watches Draco lose the battle to keep himself from touching himself, licks his lips and arches his back. He wants to suck Draco’s cock, wants it inside him any which way Draco will allow him to and pushes his finger deeper inside himself. He wriggles it a little, pulls back, pushes it further inside and fingerfucks himself, agonisingly slow. He matches his strokes and his thrusts, teases his hole into loosening enough to accept a second lube-slicken finger and increases the speed of his thrusts. He grips his cock harder, strokes faster, arches his back and impales himself onto his fingers and pleads with his eyes, begs Draco to fuck him, but Draco shakes his head, refuses him still.

Harry groans in frustration, strokes himself harder and thrusts his fingers in as deep as they will go, twists them around and rubs against that sweet spot that instantly makes him see stars.

“Draco—, please, fuck—, please, I can’t, I need, need you, need you so fucking bad—, please, please, please—” Harry begs wantonly, doesn’t even care how desperate he sounds and lets go of his cock, reaches out for Draco and grabs his wrist, squeezes, stares at him, bleary-eyed, unfocused and so fucking close that his entire body is on fire, burning with fervent need. Draco stills his hand and with each second, that ticks by, Harry can feel himself growing increasingly desperate.

When Draco eventually gives in and drawls onto the bed, Harry willingly shuffles further up the bed, withdraws his fingers from his arse, and spreads his legs as far as they’ll go, opening himself up for Draco, shameless exposing himself. He doesn’t care how lewd this is and most definitely doesn’t care how depraved and debauched he looks. He only cares about Draco finally touching him and hisses when Draco slowly runs both his hands from his ankles up to his thighs, along the inside, to his cock, which he squeezes, to his balls, which he massages and down to his hole, which he teases. Harry reaches for another phial of lube, uncorks it and hands it to Draco, who takes it, coats his fingers with it and slips two of them into Harry, fucks him slowly and Harry groans, bucks his hips violently and feels himself tether on the very edge of his sanity.

Thankfully Draco doesn’t seem to be in the mood to tease and much to Harry’s delight he withdraws his fingers and replaces them with the tip of his cock. When Draco raises a questioning eyebrow at him, Harry nods and lets out a languid moan when Draco slowly pushes into him and doesn’t stop until he’s sheathed all the way inside. Harry hisses, breathes through the burn, and tries to relax, allowing pleasure to take over. He quickly adjusts to the feeling of Draco’s cock filling him up and thinks that this is perfect, that this is heaven, that this is exactly how it’s supposed to be. When Draco leans forward, braces himself on his arms and kisses Harry roughly, Harry doesn’t at all object, lets himself be swept away and motions for Draco to move. Draco obliges and Harry is grateful for the fast and unforgiving rhythm Draco sets, loves the way Draco pounds into him, claims him repeatedly with every single thrust.

Harry locks his legs around Draco’s waist, sneaks his arms around Draco’s neck, doesn’t quite manage to continue kissing Draco, bucks his hips upward and fluidly matches every single one of Draco’s thrusts. When Draco finds his prostate he screams in delight, arches his back off the bed, draws Draco as close against his own body as he possibly can and when Draco buries his face in the crook of his neck, he twists his fingers into Draco’s sweat-soaked hair shudders. Draco groans into his flushed, sweaty skin and the sound sends pleasurable vibrations through Harry. Draco thrusts faster, harder still and Harry begs for more, though he has no idea if he’s still coherent, thinks he probably isn’t but continues to spur Draco on anyway. Draco gives him everything and more and Harry thinks he’s free-falling through the sky.

All of Harry’s senses are on overload. His ears fill with the slapping sound of Draco’s sweat-soaked skin meeting his, of Draco’s never-ending moans and groans and his own desperate, wanton pleas. His nostrils fill with the smell of arousal, the smell of sex, the smell of sweat, the smell of the burning fireplace across the room. His vision is blurry, his lungs burn and his head is spinning. His skin is on fire, his cock leaking and twitching, squished tightly between his and Draco’s bodies, enjoying the delicious friction of Draco’s fluid powerful thrusts.

“Come for me, Harry, come for me,” Draco breathes into his ear and Harry arches his back, digs his fingernails roughly into Draco’s skin, scratches, probably draws blood, and screams Draco’s name over and over again as he clenches around Draco’s hips and comes hard and long, his orgasm ripped from him with such force that he doesn’t know whether he’s still alive or had died and gone to heaven. He thinks the latter is more likely than the former and wonders how it’s possible that Draco has that kind of power over him, manages to rip such powerful orgasms from him and manages to reduce him to a quivering mess of…Harry isn’t sure what he is, doesn’t want to make the effort to think.

Draco follows suit and the feeling Draco shooting his come deep inside of him only serves to intensive everything Harry feels and his entire body shivers and shudders in the aftermath of his release. Draco collapses on top of him even despite struggling to breathe, Harry doesn’t tell him to move, doesn’t think he still knows how to talk and lets his arms and legs splay out across the bed, too tired to hold on to Draco and too tired to move.

Draco doesn’t move for the longest time and Harry doesn’t mind, not even in the slightest. He wants to stay like this forever, loves being one with Draco and thinks there’s nothing that feels better than lying in bed with Draco after making love.

Eventually, Draco does however shuffle and Harry winces when Draco’s cock slips out of him and he curls up at his side. Harry grudgingly copies Draco, rolls onto his side, and tiredly lifts his head to survey the damage he’s done to Draco’s back. His fingernails have left ten ugly red, bloody welts behind and when Harry moves to touch them, Draco hisses and groans. Harry summons his wand from the nightstand and his about to cast a simple healing spell when Draco takes his wand off him and tosses it to the floor.

“Don’t bother,” he mumbles and Harry frowns, “a little reminder of how my boyfriend likes to rough me up when I don’t finish my meetings with my publisher on time,” Draco smirks and Harry rolls his eyes, flops back into the pillow, and lies on his back.

“However, did you get out of that meeting?” He asks curiously.

“Showed them your randy messages and told them I had to go,” Draco smirks and Harry’s eyes instantly widen in horror.

“You didn’t!” he accuses and Draco chuckles. Harry notices the cheeky glint in Draco’s eyes, slaps his arm and growls. “Bastard,” he pouts and grumbles when Draco merely laughs.

“I love you too,” he winks and Harry, still on a high from his mind-blowing orgasm, forgives Draco when he peppers his shoulder with a few sweet kisses. He thinks he’s most definitely going soft, is losing his touch and blames it entirely on Draco sodding Malfoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> King's of Leon's "Sex On Fire" was on loop for this, my cat was not pleased.


	20. Coffee

Harry grins, watches with bemusement as Draco warily eyes the Muggle contraption that is, as of last night, the latest addition to their kitchen. He’s tired of making coffee by the cup. It’s tedious and he doesn’t have time for it — _he’s also not very good at it_ — especially not in the mornings when he’s trying to get ready for work and barely remembers his own name. Harry most definitely doesn’t understand why he bothers getting up at the ungodly hour of six o’clock every morning, it’s torture and he hates it, hates it until he’s sufficiently caffeinated, then he really doesn’t care all that much.

Draco brews a perfect pour-over each time he makes coffee, does it as though he’s brewed coffee all his life, and manages to use their stovetop espresso maker while still half asleep. Harry despises him for it, truly despises the fact that Draco’s so much better at making coffee. He also most definitely despises the fact that Draco has made it abundantly clear that he will not be getting up at the crack of dawn just to brew Harry a cup of coffee to fulfil his newly acquired addiction of caffeine. Harry thinks it’s completely unfair. It’s Draco’s fault that he’s now addicted to coffee in the first place but he also knows that it’s useless to try and debate the issue with Draco. It’s an argument he’ll never win, not even with the help of magic.

“What on earth is it? Our kettle works perfectly fine, why do we need such an elaborate water-boiling contraption?” Draco asks, toys with the on-off switch and growls when the little red light stubbornly refuses to come on. He throws Harry an exasperated look and Harry pushes himself off the doorframe, walks into the kitchen and plugs the coffee machine’s power cable into the power socket.

“Here, try again,” he suggests and Draco flicks the switch. This time the light comes on and that silly grin on Draco face is completely endearing, though Harry knows better than to tell Draco so. It is the same grin Draco wore when he successfully worked out how to use the toaster and the microwave, with Harry’s careful instructions of course.

“What is it?” Draco asks again, grabs the carafe, and examines it from all angles. Harry traps him between his own body and the kitchen counter and cheekily steals a kiss. Draco glowers at him but lets him get away with it and Harry grins from ear to ear. He loves doing things that irk Draco but that he’s allowed to do anyway because, well, they love each other.

“A coffee machine,” he tells Draco, kisses him again and makes sure his body is still tightly pressed up against Draco’s. He leans forward and reaches for the colourful coffee can they bought at a small Muggle coffee shop several weeks ago.

“Why do you…we need a coffee machine?” Draco inquires and Harry crooks his head sideways, holds Draco’s gaze for several moments and smiles sweetly.

“Because you’re the shittiest boyfriend in the universe and won’t make me coffee,” he teases and earns himself a slap on the upper arm. He doesn’t even wince. He is well and truly used to Draco’s rough treatment, he gets it every time he pushes Draco’s boundaries, which he really loves to do but always denies when Draco questions him.

“I’m not your servant, Potter, I thought we already established that,” Draco reprimands him and Harry rolls his eyes and shrugs.

“Hm, I cook for you,” he counters and Draco raises an eyebrow at him as if to say: _Really, we’re going there?_

“That’s because you can cook,” he deadpans and Harry laughs.

“You could always learn, you did manage to make pumpkin juice the other day,”

“I will if you don’t mind me setting the house on fire. I know you’re just dying to move to Wiltshire with me and spend each day in my father’s delightful company,” Draco drawls and Harry shudders and tries his best not to think about having breakfast in the company of Lucius Malfoy. He just knows he wouldn’t manage to swallow even a bite. He’s managed to come to a silent understanding with Narcissa Malfoy and they tacitly tolerate each other but Lucius Malfoy still gives him the creeps. Spending the occasional weekend and Christmas Eve at the Manor and in the company of Draco’s ever so delightful parents is more than enough. Harry doesn’t think he could deal with any more but thankfully Draco understands and doesn’t unnecessarily force him to endure his parents’ company unless it’s absolutely unavoidable. Harry, in return, lets Draco get away with not attending Sunday dinner at the Burrow and only drags him along for special occasions.

“If you ever attempt to cook in this kitchen, I will string you up by your balls,” Harry threatens and Draco laughs, his eyes dancing with mirth.

“I’m so glad we understand each other.”

“We do, don’t we?” Harry chuckles, sets the colourful coffee can down on the counter and wraps his arms around Draco’s shoulders instead. He draws him in, kisses him gently on the lips and sighs when Draco sneaks his arms around his waist and hugs him tight. They remain like this for a moment and Harry only withdraws when his need for coffee becomes too overwhelming to ignore. He takes a small step back, presses one last kiss against Draco’s lips and mumbles, “let me show you how to use our new coffee machine.”

Draco hums in agreement and Harry patiently explains to him how to fill the water reservoir with water and how the water level indicates how many cups of coffee the coffee machine will make. Draco thinks they should fill the reservoir to the brim, thinks ten cups of coffee are just about right and reasons that Harry will probably drink about six on his own anyway. Harry doesn’t bother to respond, merely scoffs, and fills the reservoir with enough water to make about six cups of coffee. He shows Draco how to lift the lid, insert the coffee filter into the filter basket and doesn’t really have to explain to Draco how to measure the amount of coffee required to make six cups of strong coffee. He closes the lid, places the carafe on top of the warming plate, and makes sure that it’s positioned correctly underneath the filter basket, then presses the _brew_ button, “that’s it really, now we just need to wait,” Harry concludes and Draco nods thoughtfully.

“Seems perfectly logical, I can remember that,” he states and Harry doesn’t quite manage to bite back a cheeky retort.

“Just make sure the power cable is plugged in otherwise it won’t work,”

“I’m not an imbecile, Potter,” Draco frowns at him and Harry smirks but knows better than to actually say what he’s thinking.

“Never said you were,” Harry smiles and watches with delight as the coffee slowly drips into the carafe that’s sitting on the warming plate. The earthy aroma of freshly brewed coffee begins to waft heavily through the kitchen and Harry closes his eyes and inhales deeply, relishing in the invigorating scent of his favourite black pick-me-up goodness.

“You look like you’re about to have an orgasm,” Draco teases him and half opening his eyes, Harry looks at him from under lowered lashes and smiles in an irritatingly smug way. He’s learnt it from Draco, of course. There’s no way he’d ever be caught dead smiling like a self-satisfied Slytherin, that’s Draco’s job, although Harry admits that he does occasionally like to go a little sneaky on Draco. He blames that on Draco’s horrible influence, of course.

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” He murmurs seductively and closes the small gap between them, presses himself up against Draco’s firm body and pushes his thigh in-between Draco’s legs, pressing it firmly into Draco’s crotch. He is pleased when he notes that Draco doesn’t manage to respond immediately but needs to take a moment to compose himself.

“I would indeed,” he whispers, his voice thick with desire and Harry shudders a little and feels the anticipation building in the pit of his stomach. Merlin, he hopes they’ll never ever tire of being this crazy about each other, hopes they still act like this in forty years’ time when they’re old and wrinkly.

“Care to tell me all about it after coffee, Malfoy?”

“Hm, if the coffee is any good, I could be persuaded,” Draco nods and Harry kisses him soundly and wonders how they manage to get horny while making coffee. He thinks they really are as bad as each other and can’t help but be amazed at how they get anything done at all. Somehow the smallest things manage to distract them, though Harry can’t say he minds, not even in the slightest.

When the coffee has run through the filter and down in the carafe, Draco resolutely pushes him away, pours them both a mug full of hot, steaming coffee and they drink it in silence, eyes locked on each other, watching each other like hawks, quietly scheming. Harry rather enjoys their little game, enjoys the way they manage to innocently sip their coffee, while the air between them is thick and crackling with anticipation. He enjoys how they’re both so unbelievably aroused, yet manage to be so casual but knows that Draco’s struggling to keep his mask in place just as much as he is.

Harry takes another sip of coffee, keeps his eyes firmly locked on Draco’s and is desperately looking forward to dragging his gorgeous boyfriend back to bed to do nothing productive at all.


	21. Ocean

> _### Yeah, yeah_  
>  _It seems like yesterday when I said “I do”_  
>  _And after all this time my heart still burns for you_ _  
> If you don't know by now that you're my only one  
>  Take a look inside me and watch my heartstrings come undone ###_

“Knut for your thoughts,” Harry says just loud enough for Draco to hear him over the roar of the ocean waves repeatedly, and with unrelenting power, striking at the beach. It isn’t very loud because he’s standing very close.

Draco turns his head, looks at him and Harry’s breath catches in his throat. He loses himself in Draco’s eyes like he almost always does. His chest swells with pride and love over the fact that nearly five decades after they first met, Draco’s eyes still sparkle exactly the way they did when they were nineteen and freshly in love.  _They still burn with love_ , Harry muses, they’re still filled with unquenching desire and Harry doesn’t quite manage to stop that lump from forming in his throat. He tries to swallow past it, chokes a little and feels rather stupid. He wonders whether Draco can tell, notes the tiny glint of mirth shimmering in Draco’s eyes and knows that Draco knows. So much for keeping anything from Draco. It used to be easy once, many, many years ago. Now it’s become practically impossible.

“Has it really been thirty years?” Draco asks him. Harry casts his eyes down at the wedding band on his left ring finger —  _the one he hasn’t taken off since Draco put it there on the day of their nuptials_  — and nods. He doesn’t know why but it still fills him with awe and he still wonders whether it’s all real… The rational part of his brain knows it is, of course, but the sentimental part…well, there are moments when he thinks it’s all too good to be true. Moments like this, moments when Draco suddenly, and without much —  _or any really_  — questions the length of their marriage.

“Would seem that way,” he affirms, sneaks his arm around Draco’s waist and rests his head on Draco’s shoulder.  _Home_ , a little voice in his head tells him and he smiles to himself.

“Seems like only yesterday that I said  _I do_ ,” Draco whispers and that lump in Harry’s throat grows a little bigger. It’s moments like this, when Draco, without rhyme or reason, gets sentimental and starts reminiscing about their amazing journey, that Harry wonders whether, if he breaks into the Department of Mysteries again, he might find another prophecy about himself, one with his and Draco’s name on it. He knows he’s being stupid but sometimes, even after four decades, he still finds it hard to believe that the precious thing they have is real and not a dream of epic proportions. It’s moments like this, when Draco, clearly loopy from an entire day of breathing fresh salty ocean air, makes banal comments, that Harry struggles to contain all the love he feels and fails to comprehend how they’ve managed to keep the spark alive.  _Hard work_ , a little voice inside his head reminds him helpfully and when Draco wraps a strong arm around his shoulder and squeezes his upper arm, Harry closes his eyes thinks he’s the luckiest man alive.

“Any regrets?” Harry asks after a moment of silence. He knows the answer, has asked the question on more than one occasion, but asks anyway, for the crack of it. Besides, the salty ocean air makes him feel just a little light-headed and after thirty years of marriage, he’s become a tad bit cocky. Not enough to be stupidly overconfident and take Draco for granted but just enough to occasionally drive his husband mad, and just because he can.

“Yes,” Draco says unexpectedly and Harry lifts his head off Draco’s shoulder, steps in front of him and stares at him with complete and utter disbelief.

“I beg your pardon?” He asks. “Are you taking the piss, Malfoy?” He glowers because even at nearly sixty —  _though he neither looks nor feels it (most of the time anyway) and neither does Draco_  — he’s still a stubborn hothead, who flies off the handle when he really should keep his cool and wait for all the facts. Draco can handle him with ease, has had enough practice over the years. Their son, however, doesn’t at all appreciate his father’s acerbity and wouldn’t be half a Potter if he wasn’t just as cantankerous and certainly wouldn’t be half a Malfoy if he didn’t resolutely and with the utmost seriousness deny his shortcomings. Harry bites back a smirk and thinks they’ve raised the boy just right.

“I am not,” Draco replies and draws Harry’s attention back to the present matter-at-hand, “I do have regrets,” he says and Harry frowns, is confused.

“What regrets?” he asks more calmly, reins in all his other burning questions and thinks that age has made him wiser after all, if only marginally so.

“That I did never tell you that it’s difficult to be afraid with you at my side,” Draco sighs. He reaches out for Harry, clearly wants to pull him close and Harry lets him, because  _fuck it_ , despite his little outburst just now he can be a grownup about this and  _listen_. At least he thinks he can, actually doing it is another matter altogether. “I did never tell you that you’re my sanctuary, my safest place to hide.”

Harry doesn’t quite know what to make of that confession, thinks it’s extraordinarily maudlin and very unlike Draco. He also doesn’t know what to respond to that unexpected revelation but feels exceptionally stupid for allowing himself to doubt Draco’s feelings about their marriage and by extension their relationship. He thinks he should probably say something smart, wants to make a sickeningly romantic comeback but —  _of course_  — settles for a childish accusation instead. “That’s not a regret!”

“Unless you’ve finally gone senile, you really ought to remember that I was really rather good at being afraid, before…before we—”

“Finally grew some balls and put our differences aside?” Harry offers and Draco nods. “I don’t think anyone ever noticed, that mask of yours was rather brilliant.”

“You saw right through it,” Draco smiles and Harry chuckles.

“Well, I was a tad bit obsessed with you, wasn’t I?” He grins lopsidedly.

“That you were, Potter, that you were.”

“Still am, funnily enough,” Harry laughs, wraps both his arms around Draco’s neck and draws him in for a quick kiss. He can taste the salty ocean air on Draco’s lips and unable to resist, he deepens the kiss and he can’t help but note that the saltiness blends perfectly with the warm sweet wetness of Draco’s mouth. Harry sighs into the kiss, lets Draco pull him closer and relishes in the fact that their bodies still mould together quite perfectly. They aren’t, of course, as firm as they once used to be but if Harry is entirely honest, he almost prefers this slightly softer version of Draco. He once stupidly compared Draco to a cuddly teddy bear and found himself spending the night downstairs in the living room, locked out of their bedroom until the next morning, and knows very well that complimenting the softness of Draco’s body is something he will never say aloud ever again.

“You guys are disgusting!” Jamie’s interjection was inevitable really and breaking away from the kiss, Harry pulls out of his husband’s embrace and reminds himself not to glare at his son.

 _Be the responsible parent for once (because oddly enough he isn’t but Draco is, which wasn’t how it was supposed to be but it just is and Harry has long since given up on fighting those facts)_ , he reprimands himself and smiles sweetly, “my humble apologies Jamie, won’t ever happen again.” He teases his son, who scoffs and rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, heard that a million times before, therefore unlikely,” Jamie drawls and Harry shoots Draco an accusatory glare that screams,  _say something_. He also thinks that there’s absolutely no way their son isn’t going to end up in Slytherin. There isn’t an ounce of dorky Gryffindorishness in him and Harry wholeheartedly blames Draco for that, just because he can.

“James Severus Potter-Malfoy, if you think watching your dad and I kiss and hug is such a horrible sight, by all means, Kynance Cove is big enough for you chase crabs on another part of the beach,” Draco says in all seriousness and Harry has to turn his face away to hide his smirk. It’s been a little over ten years and he still doesn’t manage to use Jamie’s full name with a straight face, which is why he is entirely convinced that he’s not fit to be a responsible parent. He does admire Draco’s ability to be so utterly composed and mildly regrets the fact that he’s never quite managed to master that particular skill.

When Jamie doesn’t respond, Harry bites his tongue, winces at the pain and with the smirk gone from his face he turns back to look back and forth between Draco and their son. They appear to be involved in a sort of staring match and Harry watches curiously, intrigued to find out who is going to give in first. Jamie always loses, but it still doesn’t stop him from stupidly venturing into the dragon’s lair and boldly poking Draco with a stick. Upon that thought, Harry reckons, there might just be a chance for Jamie to end up in Gryffindor and he fervently hopes that he’s right because if he doesn’t, he has to sell Grimmauld Place and they will permanently relocate to Wiltshire to live at Malfoy Manor. Harry has no idea how Draco managed to talk him into that idiotic bet, but they’ve sealed it with a magic spell and there’s no getting out of it. Harry’s convinced they’re both not fit to be parents and thinks they probably had a little too much Firewhiskey when they chose magical surrogacy and found a young witch to carry their child.  _His child_ , he reminds himself because theoretically, Jamie is genetically his, though judging by the way Jamie acts, Harry frequently has his doubts. Then there’s always the fact that they waited so insanely long to have a child at all…

“Fine, I’m sorry, you guys aren’t disgusting,” Jamie eventually gives in and Harry grins at Draco and doesn’t need words to let him know that he thinks Draco is utterly phenomenal. Then again, Harry reckons, he probably isn’t the best person to be asked that question because this is what he thinks of Draco most days that he wakes up in bed beside him.

“Well that’s much better,” Draco nods. “Thank you for your apology, James, though I really do think we should have a chat about the birds and the bees sometime in the very near future.”

At that threat, Jamie screeches like a banshee, looks positively horrified, covers his ears with his hands and makes a mad dash down the beach. Anything to get away, apparently. Draco laughs, loudly and entirely unrestrained, and Harry shakes his head. He can’t help but wonder whether he’s truly correct in his assumption that he’s the irresponsible parent because right now he very much thinks that Draco is. Threatening a ten-year-old with a detailed chat about the human anatomy and sex isn’t very mature at all.

“What?” Draco looks at him with an air of complete nonchalance though Harry does note the bemused glint in his eyes.

“You are—” Harry pauses, searching for a suitable adjective to describe Draco but draws a blank.

“Handsome? Attractive? Strikingly good-looking? Exceedingly smart? An exceptional father to your son? Everything you always wanted?” Draco offers unashamedly and Harry merely rolls his eyes.

“All of the above and then some,” he laughs eventually and Draco pulls him close, fixes his clear piercing pewter eyes on him and arches his eyebrow in a silent invitation. Harry inclines his head and Draco kisses him with a fervent passion that reduces Harry to nothing more but a pliable messy goo. It’s moments like this that he finds it hard to believe that they aren’t still only twenty years young and madly in love with one another. 

> _### Can you see me, here I am_  
>  _I need you like I needed you then_  
>  _When I feel like giving up_  
>  _I climb inside your heart and still find_ _  
> _You're my safest place to hide__
> 
> _And when this whole world gets too crazy_  
>  _And there's nowhere left to run_  
>  _I know you give me sanctuary_ _  
> _You're the only truth I know_  
>  _You're the road back home ###__

Much later that evening when Jamie is fast asleep in his room down the hall and Harry lies with his head resting on Draco’s chest, his hand thrown across Draco’s soft belly and his thigh draped over Draco’s still very firm legs, that Harry feels oddly content and perfectly at ease about everything and anything.

When Draco starts to softly comb his fingers through Harry’s slowly greying —  _still unmanageably wild_  — mop of hair, Harry sighs and draws uneven patters on Draco’s forearm.

“I meant everything I said at the beach earlier,” Draco whispers and Harry exhales audibly, though not because he feels sad or because he’s tired but because he isn’t sure whether he’s ready to listen to what Draco’s about to say. Something tells him it won’t be a mind-blowingly sappy declaration of love this time.

“I know you did,” he says quietly.

“I wanted to give up once. Twice actually, if I’m bluntly honest.” Draco makes another heart-stopping confession and Harry lifts his head off Draco’s chest and looks at him but remains perfectly calm. Calmer than he thinks he should be, given the fact that Draco just confessed he thought about leaving him once, no  _twice_.

“You did?” He asks.

“Your second year as an Auror, when you got caught in that explosion and spent a month in St Mungo’s. I swore to myself that I’d talk you out of continuing to be an Auror, swore to myself that I’d leave you if you didn’t,” Draco says and Harry silently notes the unshed tears in Draco’s eyes and feels his chest tighten painfully. “I already loved you so much and then I suddenly came so close to losing you and I didn’t think I could do it, didn’t know how to handle it, I didn’t want to live with the fear of maybe losing you for real one day,” Draco continues. “And there was a day when I thought walking away would be for the best because you could continue chasing bad guys and I wouldn’t have to worry about losing you because you were no longer mine, to begin with.”

“You never tried to talk me out of being an Auror,” Harry murmurs and brushes the back of his fingers against Draco’s cheek, blinks and brushes a single stray tear from the corner of Draco’s eye.

“And I never did leave you,” Draco smiles weakly.

“But you wanted to,” Harry sighs.

“But I wanted to,” Draco affirms.

“The other time you wanted to leave?” Harry questions and Draco remains silent for several minutes.

“Do you really want to know?” He then asks and Harry nods.

“That time  _The Prophet_  found out and the shit they wrote about us just got crazier and crazier each week,” he says, his voice low and Harry frowns as he thinks back to all those months of scrutiny and how he nearly lost his job because the reporters made it almost impossible for him do his job.

“I know we fought a lot back then, but you did never tell me you wanted to leave. It was always me who stormed off,” he says softly, runs his thumb over Draco’s lips and doesn’t resist to press a gentle kiss against the soft pale-red skin.

“And that was exactly why I wanted to leave, why I wanted to give up,” Draco sighs. “I couldn’t handle the idea of you leaving, it’s why I wanted you to quit the DMLE after that accident.”

“Why tell me now?”

“Because I’m a sentimental old fool?” Draco smiles and Harry chuckles.

“That you are, then again so am I.”

“Did you ever—?”

“Want to leave you?”

Draco nods and Harry shakes his head. He’s mildly surprised that he’s not more shaken by Draco’s revelation, but then again it happened well over thirty years ago and Harry has enough life experience not to get wound up over things that did never happen. His heart aches a little at the thought that Draco had once, no  _twice_ , thought about leaving him but he pushes the feeling aside almost immediately and wholeheartedly concentrates on the fact that Draco is still here.

“Never. It was always you, always. You know that. You had me at that first kiss,” Harry says and cringes at the memory of how he managed to deny his feelings for Draco for months. It still mesmerises him now that Draco simply quietly pined for him but never said a word…well, until Harry finally plucked up the courage to admit to himself what he wanted and chased after it with the utmost conviction.

“I think I had you way before that first kiss,” Draco teases him and Harry rolls his eyes, places his head back on Draco’s chest and closes his eyes. Draco’s steady heartbeat lulls him into a state of perfect calmness. “One lover for four decades, are you sure you’ve no regrets?” Draco pushes and Harry doesn’t really want to answer but does anyway.

“Give me a time-turner and I’ll do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing,” he says with enough certitude to shut Draco up for the night and is about to drift off when another thought occurs to him. He lifts his head, locks eyes with Draco and smirks. “Something to stroke your ego, Malfoy. Sex with you is out of this world, mind-blowingly sublime.”

“Yet you have nothing to compare it to,” Draco mocks him affectionately.

“No need, you satisfy me completely,” Harry responds, purposefully lays it on thick and rests his head back on Draco’s chest to the sound of his husband’s incessant chuckling. Though, if he’s entirely honest, there was a time —  _long, long ago_  — when he’d felt rather self-conscious about his lack experience in the bedroom, not that Draco had allowed him to feel self-conscious for very long though.

“You are a fool, Potter.”

“A fool in love,” Harry counters and snuggles closer when Draco wraps an arm around him and holds him tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this with the Backstreet Boys' "Safest Place To Hide" on loop, not sure whether I did the song justice but I hope I did Draco and Harry justice.


	22. Tradition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mild bondage and mild Dom/sub play. It's really quite mild, very much vanilla still, but I feel like I should mention it, since it's not everybody's cup of tea.

Harry casually toys with his wand, sits back on the sofa and watches the fireplace. He waits patiently, doesn’t even tense when the flames turn green and roar to life. Instead, he smoothly and elegantly rises to his feet, raises his wand and the moment Draco steps out and into their drawing room, he flicks his wand, casts a wordless _Expelliarmus_ to disarm and catches Draco’s wand with the practised ease of an Auror.

“Harry Potter! What the actual fuck!” Draco growls and raises his hand, is about to cast a wandless spell, but Harry is faster, so much faster. He, almost lazily, flicks his wand and casts an Auror-modified version of the _Incarcerous_ spell. Thin, golden ropes fly from the tip of his wand and he expertly directs them to wrap themselves around Draco’s wrists and secures them behind Draco’s back. Draco sways, staggers, and struggles against the bonds, growls, and spits a colourful array of curse words at Harry. He glares daggers and promises murder and is, in general, a scary but remarkable sight.

 _A bit like an erupting volcano really_ , Harry muses. Ordinarily, Harry would find this version of Draco just a little unsettling, but today Harry firmly stands his ground. When Draco starts towards him, he merely lifts his wand and points it at Draco, who pauses mid-step, eyes him warily and doesn’t move any further. He does, however, continue to curse Harry under his breath and his face is flushed from the effort it takes him to fight against Harry’s conjured bonds. Draco must know that his struggle is entirely useless but Harry knows better than to tell him. Harry has to admit that this version of Draco is indeed hair-raising, spine-chilling, and completely blood-curdling. It takes him all his resolve not to give in to his instinct and back away, but he reminds himself of the fact that Draco is wandless and bound and stands his ground.

“Potter, untie me!” Draco snaps, livid, eyes blazing. Harry merely laughs, flicks his wand and Draco finds himself sitting on the sofa. Harry grins, eyes gleaming and approaches Draco. He keeps his wand carefully trained on Draco, stops several inches away from Draco’s knees and casts a second Auror-modified version of the _Incarcerous_ spell to secure Draco’s ankles the moment he attempts to kick at him. He conjures a chair, eases himself into it, leans back, idly rolls his wand between his fingers and gives Draco a moment to cool down. When it becomes apparent that Draco isn’t going to shut up, Harry threatens him with a gag and that silences Draco immediately. He does continue to glare daggers at Harry, but Harry isn’t fussed, not even a little.

“We have to talk,” he says with as much nonchalance as he can muster and when Draco opens his mouth with the very intention to curse him to hell, he gently reminds him that it’s never a good idea to piss off an Auror. Draco snaps his mouth shut and inclines his head in a _(very)_ small control-relinquishing gesture.

“You lied to me, Draco,” Harry accuses, stares Draco down but doesn’t manage to get him to avert his eyes, not yet anyway. He doesn’t let it perturb him and remains calm, at least on the outside. Inside he can’t help but think that he’s going to regret doing this to Draco, that he’s going to pay for it for the rest of his life. He refuses to listen to that small voice of reason that suggests he should untie Draco and beg for forgiveness from now on until Christmas 2030. “Filial piety is _not_ a wizarding pureblood tradition that binds you to your parents after your 25 th birthday and forces us to make weekly trips to Malfoy Manor. It’s a Confucian philosophy, a virtue of showing respect for one’s parents and ancestors,” Harry says and does not miss the Slytherin-infused smirk that curls Draco’s lips into a devilish smile.

“Bravo, Potter, you finally figured it out, took you long enough,” Draco taunts him and Harry can’t help but admire Draco’s balls of steel. He’s wandless, bound tightly, and forced to remain seated until Harry sees it fit to undo the spells he’s cast, yet Draco is still arrogantly confident.

“You’re way too cocksure for your own good, Malfoy,” Harry chastises him and Draco laughs, sits perfectly relaxed and eyes Harry curiously. Harry wants to ask him what he’s playing at, wonders how Draco managed to rein in his fury this fast, takes a closer look and pierces right through that carefully constructed mask, Draco’s pulled up.

“Are you going to do anything about that, Auror Potter?” Draco teases.

Harry rolls his eyes, casually pulls his left leg up and rests his left ankle on top of his thigh. He leans forward a little, surveys Draco, quirks an eyebrow at him and flicks his wand to tighten the ropes that keep Draco bound. Draco yelps and for a split second his mask slips, slips just low enough for Harry to note the fury in Draco’s eyes.

“You made me sit through sixteen fucking dinners in the _delightful_ ,” he spits the word with as much venom as he can muster, “company of your father.” Harry continues to remain calm and cool, leans back in his conjured chair and stares at Draco, determined to wear him down. He knows he’ll manage eventually. Draco has never been able to resist his eyes and there’s no way this is going to change now.

“Only sixteen,” Draco scoffs. “I figured it would take you at least twenty-four, if not thirty before you finally cop on,” he adds with a smirk but Harry notes the slight flicker in his eyes.

“You subjected me to thirty-two hours of unspeakable torture, Malfoy, you owe me,” Harry lowers his voice, narrows his eyes, and keeps them fixed on Draco even as he moves to get to his feet, pockets his wand and straddles Draco’s thighs with practised ease. He brings his face within inches of Draco’s, holds his gaze, and waits. He notes the shudder that jolts through Draco’s body, notes the repeated flicker of his eyes and notes the way his lips part and his breath hitches.

“Bite me,” Draco snarls, his voice a threatening murmur, and Harry follows through. He captures Draco’s bottom lip with his lips and sinks his teeth into the soft wet flesh, not hard enough to draw blood but most definitely hard enough for Draco to feel the sting of his teeth. Harry delights in the way Draco groans into the bite and the way his back arches and how he flushes, clearly just a little mortified at how easily his body betrays him, considering what Harry is doing to him right this moment.

Harry drags his teeth over Draco’s bottom lip, lets it slip from his grasp and assaults Draco’s firm jawline with his lips and teeth, works his way to Draco’s neck and is pleased when Draco tilts his head and gives him free access. He presses his mouth to Draco’s ear, breathes heavily and feels Draco shudder beneath him. “Gagging for it, aren’t you, Malfoy?” he taunts, sucks Draco’s earlobe into his mouth, flicks his tongue over it, then bites it _hard_ , wrenching a strangled sort of groan-snarl from the depths of Draco’s chest. “So easy to make you come undone, so fucking easy,” Harry breathes, nips at Draco’s neck, bites, and sucks, and silently wonders exactly when they’ve both become so very kinky. Sure, they’ve tied each other up before, but this is bordering on something else entirely. He’s mildly worried that he’s pushing Draco too far and withdraws a little, just far enough to look into Draco’s eyes. He finds them dilated, almost black with lust, hungry with desire and burning with desperate need. It takes Harry by surprise and he needs a moment to comprehend, then his curiosity gets the better of him and he wants to see how far he can push Draco. He wants to know just how good Draco is at relinquishing all his control and leaving somebody else in charge of _every. single. decision_.

He sits back a little more, presses his thumb against Draco’s lips and holds his gaze. He runs his other hand down Draco’s chest, drags a nail over one of Draco’s nipples and delights in the way Draco’s lips part against his thumb and the way he sucks in a shaky breath. “Not so cocksure anymore now, are you, my love?” Harry teases, deliberately uses a pet name, pinches Draco’s nipple through his shirt, pinches it hard and draws a delectable moan from Draco’s slightly parted lips. He delights in the way Draco’s chest rapidly rises and falls and moves to slowly unbutton Draco’s shirt. He makes sure to drag his fingernails over every inch of pale skin he exposes and with the last button undone, he exposes Draco’s torso and assaults Draco’s collarbone, leaves a bite mark, and slips his hand down to Draco’s crotch. He squeezes, massages Draco’s hardening cock through his trousers, then abruptly withdraws, sits back, looks at Draco, and drinks in the sight of him; eyes almost closed, lips parted, drawing in shallow ragged breaths.

“Just how much do you want this?” Harry can’t help but ask and watches the effort it takes Draco to open his eyes. He tries to speak but doesn’t quite manage and Harry growls; the sight is enough to drive him wild. He leans in, presses his mouth to Draco’s ear and whispers, “You’ve been a bad boy, really bad, you deserve to be punished.”

The deep and absolutely desperate moan that escapes Draco’s lips sends a thrill down Harry’s spine and it makes his cock twitch in anticipation.

“P-p-please…” Draco’s plea is faint, quiet, almost merely a breath of air. It stuns Harry because it’s the first time he’s ever heard Draco beg like this. Beg to be punished of all things. It’s such a fucking turn on that Harry can’t help but kiss Draco roughly and with the very intention to bruise, to leave a mark, to make him his. He twists his fingers into Draco’s blond hair, which is longer than usual, and tugs hard. Draco groans into their kiss and desperately tries to buck his hips upward but Harry keeps him in place. He plunges his tongue deep into Draco’s mouth, kisses him harshly. It’s an open-mouthed wet and sloppy kiss and Draco responds to it perfectly. Harry trails one hand down Draco’s shoulder, down his arm and to his bound wrists. He slips his hand into Draco’s and Draco squeezes, silently reassures him that he’s okay, that this is okay, that he wants this.

Thrill after thrill of intense desire rushes over Harry, threatens to overwhelm him, and he realises he needs this as much as Draco wants this. He breaks the kiss, pulls away and draws his wand. With a practised swoosh and a wordless spell, he disappears Draco’s clothes, all of them, leaving him naked except for the bonds he put on him. He loosens the bonds around Draco’s ankles, allows him to move his legs and spread his thighs. He looks down at Draco’s hard cock, proudly curving upward, begging for attention. It twitches under Harry’s scrutinising gaze and he gathers some of the precome from the tip and sucks on his finger, tasting Draco. He only barely manages to hold back a moan and winks at Draco, who doesn’t hold back a moan and looks like he’s about to beg again.

Harry leans closer, whispers into Draco’s ear again, “hold it back until you’ve redeemed yourself.”

It’s a sweet threat and if Draco’s desperate moan is anything to go by, he’s managed to sound convincing. He wraps his hand around Draco’s cock, gives it a few firm strokes, then resolutely moves off Draco’s thighs and into a standing position. He places both his and Draco’s wand on the conjured chair behind him and begins to take off his clothes. He carelessly discards them on the floor and once he’s naked he steps closer to Draco, raises a challenging eyebrow, and waits.

Draco’s eyes widen, he gives a small nod, then awkwardly shuffles forward, licks his lips, and attempts to wrap them around Harry’s cock. With no hands to help, he has to try more than once and Harry is not at all inclined to help. Eventually, Draco does manage and Harry lets out a soft moan when Draco sucks him deep into the warm, wet heat of his mouth. Harry can’t help but twist his fingers into Draco’s hair and push himself deeper into the hot wetness that is Draco’s mouth. Draco chokes a little but adjusts almost immediately and Harry bucks his hips, thrusts into Draco’s mouth. He looks down at his cock repeatedly disappearing in Draco’s mouth and when Draco opens his eyes and looks up at him with complete adoration, Harry groans and his knees threaten to give in.

“Fuck, Draco, so good, you’re so good at this,” Harry praises and wonders how he’s supposed to stay composed now, because that look and what Draco’s doing to him makes him come undone at the seams and he thinks that he just doesn’t have it in him to boss Draco around, but he so desperately wants to punish Draco for his cheek. He takes a deep shaky breath, twists his fingers further into Draco’s hair and thrusts harder, let’s Draco repeatedly swallow the whole length of his cock and groans. There’s no way he’s going to last for even another two minutes if he lets Draco continue and even though half of him wants to pull out of Draco’s mouth, bend him over and fuck him hard, he gives into another evil idea that crosses his mind.

He closes his eyes, thrusts into Draco’s welcoming mouth, lets the warm wetness and Draco’s agile tongue suck him over the edge. He braces himself on Draco’s shoulders, thrusts deep into Draco’s mouth, feels himself slide down Draco’s throat and groans. His knees buckle and his orgasm rips through him. A moment later he explodes in Draco’s mouth, filling him with his come and is amazed that Draco doesn’t even choke but greedily manages to swallow every drop that he offers. He lets Draco suckle him dry and when his cock, now sensitive and spent, can’t take any more of the teasing he withdraws, forces Draco to lean backwards and kisses him hard. He can taste himself but he doesn’t mind, not in the slightest, and just when he’s managed to have Draco think that he’s going to return the favour he pulls away, reaches for his wand, and removes Draco’s bonds — _all of them_ — with a casual wave.

Draco groans, brings his arms to his front and gingerly rubs his clearly sore wrists, and Harry takes that as his cue. He leans forward, presses his cheek against Draco’s flushed one and whispers into his ear, “go upstairs and wait for me. Touch yourself or come and I’ll leave you tied to the bed for the rest of the day.” He withdraws, doesn’t wait for Draco’s response, doesn’t even look at him but reaches for Draco’s wand along with his own and leaves for the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filial Piety is ecaxtly what Harry explains it is. It’s a deeply rooted Asian belief of how children are supposed to honour, respect and serve their parents, elders and ancestors. It just isn’t what Draco told him it is, although I could imagine that pureblood families in wizarding Asia would have some sort of blood magic to ensure filial piety is adhered to at all costs.


	23. Chocolate

“You and your silly Muggle traditions,” Draco whispers for Harry’s ears only and Harry simply smiles, reaches for the oversized cake knife, and motions for Draco to place his hand above his own.

“You love them really,” Harry whispers back.

“Wrong, Potter, wrong as usual. I love you, I put up with them,” Draco corrects him and they both awkwardly position the knife at the top of the three-tiered chocolate stout cake with caramel buttercream, Molly Weasley insisted making for them. Draco had wanted to order an elaborate cake from a fancy London cake shop but even he hadn’t been able to bear the lost puppy look — _apparently Harry isn’t the only one who managed to break through Draco’s cold mask of indifference, though he is the only one Draco willingly admits can_ — on Molly Weasley’s face when Harry had, over dinner one evening, told her of Draco’s plans to order a bespoke cake. It hadn’t taken long for Draco to change his mind, though he had complained about it in the privacy of their bedroom for weeks on end. Harry had, of course, listened patiently, humoured him, distracted him with kisses and sex and eventually, that had been it. Molly Weasley had been put in charge of their wedding cake and it had turned out stunningly beautiful.

With the cake knife in position, Harry sneaks his free arm around Draco’s waist and squeezes his hip gently. Draco, in return, wraps his free arm around his shoulder and they stand side by side, pose for the obligatory _cutting-the-cake-_ photograph that they’ll keep in a box with all the other photographs they’ve taken over the years. With the photograph taken, Harry moves the knife ever so gently and together they slowly cut through the soft three-tiered cake, making a bit of a mess. Draco’s soft, and rather uncharacteristic, giggle, makes Harry smile and once they’ve reached the bottom of the cake, the withdraw the knife and Draco lets go of the hilt. Harry places the knife on the table in front of them, swipes his finger through the mixture of caramel buttercream and bits of chocolate cake and smears it across Draco’s lips.

Draco gives him a murderous glare, Harry laughs, licks his finger clean and threads both hands into Draco’s carefully styled hair. He pulls Draco close, stops a mere inch before his lips meet Draco’s and holds his gaze, “now you’re the sweetest thing in the room.”

He purposefully doesn’t give Draco a chance to respond but kisses him soundly to the taste of caramel buttercream, chocolate and that taste unique taste — _he doesn’t have a hope of describing_ — that is just Draco. He swallows Draco’s groan at his insanely idiotic and overly fake compliment, because, let’s face it, Draco is anything but sweet, even with cake and cream smeared across his lips. He lets Draco grasp his hips and cake forgotten they kiss as though they’re the only two people inside the room and get away with it too. For a while at least because Harry is vaguely aware of the teasing jeers that erupt throughout the room at his and Draco’s blatant public display of very inappropriate affection. Not that he cares though, they just got married and Harry thinks they absolutely can be completely and utterly inappropriate with each other on their wedding day.

Hermione persistently clearing her throat at their side eventually makes them break apart and she hands them a small plate of cake and a fork each. The music picks up a little and Harry, still, a bit dazed from their kiss, looks at Draco with darkened green eyes and thinks all he wants to do is get out of here and be all alone with Draco.

Draco smiles and Harry watches him slice his fork through the cake, watches him lift a forkful of cake off the plate and isn’t at all prepared for what Draco does next because it’s not at all what he’s supposed to do. Yet, Harry still finds himself with an entire plateful of cake smeared in his face, blinks, and glares at Draco through his buttercream-smudged glasses.

“Sweeter than the sweetest thing in the room,” Draco drawls mockingly, brings the forkful of cake to his mouth, winds his tongue around it and eats it in such a delectably inappropriate manner that Harry’s cock stirs with interest beneath his heavy wedding robes.

“Bastard,” Harry growls, brings his hand up to his face, and tries to wipe off some of the cake before it falls onto his robes. He scoops up most of it, licks some of it off his fingers and glares at Draco, who smirks like the horrible Slytherin that he is.

“Married for less than a quarter of a day and you already insult me,” Draco laughs. “This marriage is looking very promising indeed.”

“Insulting you isn’t all I’m going to do,” Harry retorts, pulls the fork out of his cake, and carelessly tosses it aside. For what he’s about to do, he most definitely doesn’t require a fork. With his already smudged fingers, he grabs the entire piece of cake from his plate and smears it into Draco’s face, covering his mouth, nose, and cheeks in chocolate and caramel buttercream. He’s vaguely aware of the fact that a couple of people are taking pictures of their silly antics but is too focused on Draco’s livid blazing eyes to pay any heed to their wedding guests.

“ _You. Did. Not. Just. Do. That._ ” Draco carefully accentuates every word, splutters, and chews on a pecan nut. Harry throws his head back and laughs. Loughs loudly, unrestraint and carefree.

“I so did, and I have no regrets, none whatsoever,” he says between bouts of laughter and watches Draco’s eyes narrow on him. He can tell that Draco is about to throw a stinging hex his way and promptly lets his Auror skills influence the speed of his reaction. With little regard to the mess they’ve created between them, he wraps both his arms around Draco, kisses him fervently, closes his eyes and firmly envisions London’s Tower Bridge in his mind. He feels the familiar tug of apparition and a second later they’ve disappeared from their own wedding reception and are standing on the top of one of London’s most famous sights, looking down over the River Thames.

“Merlin’s balls, Potter!” Draco curses, sways a little and Harry steadies him. They’ve landed right on top of the roof of the glass walkway and Harry draws his wand to banish the mess of cake on both their faces, hands, and robes. He wisely follows up with a disillusionment charm to conceal them both. He doubts any Muggles _will_ notice them but thinks it’s better to be safe than sorry. “Did you just disappear us from our own wedding?” Draco asks with bemusement and Harry nods.

“Wanted to be alone with you,” he shrugs and draws Draco into his arms, which is odd because he can barely see him but can feel him just fine.

“On top of the Tower Bridge?” Draco questions but returns the embrace and Harry pulls him that little bit closer to fully enjoy the warmth of his new husband’s body pressed up against his own. “You do have a flair for the dramatics, I’ll give you that,” Draco praises him and Harry chuckles quietly into Draco’s chest.

“First place that came to mind,” Harry mumbles, somehow doesn’t manage to miss Draco’s lips and melts into their kiss, which, oddly enough, feels different and new now that they’re married. He doesn’t understand it, they haven’t changed at all, but he loves the new feeling, finds it intoxicating and wants so much more.  
  
“You are something else, Potter,” Draco murmurs against his lips, deepens their kiss and Harry groans, twists his hands tightly into Draco’s robes and wishes he’d apparated them into their bedroom at Grimmauld Place. They kiss and kiss and kiss until they’re both breathless and unable to ignore the unpleasant burning of their lungs.

“Want you, want you so bad,” Harry confesses between two deep breaths and Draco’s amused chuckle sends a thrill of excitement down his spine.

“We haven’t even had our first dance yet,” Draco admonishes him gently, combs his fingers through his invisible hair and Harry sighs contently and wonders if that’s how Lily Nox Potter-Malfoy feels whenever she curls up on Draco’s chest and Draco spends two hours or more mindlessly petting her, then dozing off to the sound of her purrs.

“Screw our first dance,” Harry sighs. “I just want to take you home, be alone with you.”

“We can escape again after our first dance,”

Harry knows that Draco’s trying to reason with him but he doesn’t care much for reason at this point. Instead, he makes perfect use of Draco’s closeness and apparates them into a dark alleyway near a small gay bar in Brighton, a place they haven’t visited in years but have fond memories of. Harry more so than Draco. He takes off the disillusionment charms, slips his hand into Draco’s and drags him out of the alley, down the narrow lane and inside the bar. Once inside, he turns to face Draco, looks at him and pleads in a low whisper, “just you and me, please, just for a while, then we can go back.”

Draco nods, they head to the bar, order a glass of champagne each and Harry leans over the bar and boldly asks the bartender to play them a ridiculously schmaltzy love song that isn’t at all the song they’d originally picked for their first dance. He drags Draco out onto the small dance floor, which takes Harry all his courage and then some because he absolutely hates dancing in front of people. When the song begins to play, he draws Draco into his arms, forgets the world around them and gives in to his desire to dance with Draco, to dance with his husband. Harry deliberately picked a very slow song and as Draco wraps him into his arms, he rests his head on Draco’s shoulder, closes his eyes and vows to treasure this moment for the rest of their lives.

When the song fades out several minutes later, Harry wakes from his trance to the deafening roar of all his friends and family, well most of them really, who have descended over the small bar. He looks at Draco, frowns and raises a questioning eyebrow.

“I think Granger put a trace on both of us,” Draco shrugs and Harry groans.

“Should have known she’d do that,” he sighs, then laughs and peels himself out of Draco’s embrace in favour of ambushing his two best friends with the biggest hug possible. He almost crushes them in his excitement and even Ron complains but Harry senses that neither one of them has the heart to make him pull away. He is somewhat mortified when he realises that he has tears streaming down his face. When Draco hugs him from behind, he calms instantly, relaxes back against Draco’s firm body, and forgets all about berating Hermione for making it impossible to escape their own wedding. Someone in the crowd shouts, _To the happy couple!_ and everyone raises a glass in a toast. Harry merely twists his head, holds it at an awkward angle and looks at Draco with a plotting smirk that’s worthy of any Slytherin. “Do you reckon we’ll get to the Portkey before their track us down again?” he asks and Draco laughs.

“Stop running, she’ll find you anywhere,”

“As will I,” Ron piques up and holds up the deluminator Dumbledore left him in his will so many years ago.

Harry groans, turns in Draco’s embrace, and looks rather apologetic, “I’m sorry I forced you to become part of this crazy family.”

“You can spend the rest of both our lives making it up to me,” Draco smirks and Harry lets him draw him in for a kiss and resolutely tunes out the complaining groans from his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd be interested to hear your suggestions with regards to the song Harry asked the bartender to play for them.


	24. Friendship

“Can we talk?” Harry asks sheepishly, shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and feels himself flush when Draco looks up from his — _diary?_ —, squints in the glare of the sunlight and holds his gaze for several moments.

Eventually, Draco nods and Harry sits astride the large bark-stripped smooth trunk of dead tree Draco is sitting on. He watches Draco close the black book in his hands and place it inside his leather satchel. He watches him pull down the right sleeve of grey shirt and reflexively goes to stop him from covering up the mark on his left arm. “You don’t have to cover that,” he whispers, doesn’t let go of Draco’s right hand, and is grateful when Draco doesn’t pull away but lets him hold on to him.

“You don’t like it,” Draco reminds him softly and Harry shrugs.

“I don’t care about it, it’s not who you are, you were never that person,” he admits and flushes crimson when Draco merely smiles at him. They both know it’s not entirely true — _at least Harry hopes Draco knows_ — because he does kind of despise that mark but he can’t bring himself to hate Draco for it, not after nearly a year of getting to know him, the real him.

“What do you want to talk about?” he wants to know and Harry says nothing, turns his head slightly and stares out over the Black Lake. He marvels at its calmness and wonders if he’ll ever manage to feel that way. He reaches for a flat white stone and aimlessly toys with it, is tempted to flick it into the lake but doesn’t.

“I want to talk about us,” he finally brings himself to say but still doesn’t look at Draco. He feels stupid, completely out of his depth, and wonders why he came looking for Draco in the first place. He’s not sure it was such a good decision after all.

“What about us?” Draco asks patiently and Harry takes a deep breath, turns his head, and looks at Draco. He flushes under his curious gaze and squeezes Draco’s hand, holds on to it as though it’s his lifeline to sanity. He doesn’t say anything for the longest time, doesn’t quite know where to begin. It sounded all so easy in his head last night when he gave himself a very long pep talk. A pep talk that lasted until the early hours of the morning when sheer exhaustion finally forced him to catch an hour or two of sleep. Now he feels like his tongue is stuck to the top of his mouth with a permanent sticking charm. His throat is dry and his palms are sweaty. He is sure that Draco can feel his nervousness and wonders why Draco doesn’t withdraw his hand.

“I don’t want to be friends with you anymore,” Harry finally blurts out and this time he flushes scarlet, shudders, and wants to hex himself to the bottom of the Black Lake. This is not at all what he wants to say and he hates the fact that he’s managed to make himself sound like an utter imbecile. He’s surprised that Draco hasn’t burst out laughing yet, or worse gathered up his things and walked off, but is quite sure that it’ll happen any time now.

“I kind of gathered that after that spectacularly public kiss down in Hogsmeade two weeks ago,” Draco replies, his voice soft and gentle, entirely devoid of his posh drawl. Harry doesn’t at all understand why Draco doesn’t mock him, why he doesn’t make a sarcastic comment or a snide remark, why he doesn’t tease or taunt, why he isn’t more Slytherin about this whole thing. “The question is just, what do you want us to be?”

At that, Harry withdraws his hand, lets go of the stone, he’s been playing with, and runs both his hands through his messy hair, ruffling it up even more, if that’s at all possible. He sighs, sucks in a shaky breath and sighs again.

“I—,” he starts, but breaks off. “I just wanted a really boring year at Hogwarts, that’s why I came back. I wanted one last shot at a normal teenage life, one last year of classes, one year to try and put the war behind me, to heal, to forget, to just, _fuck_ —,” Harry knows he’s babbling and resolutely stops himself because whatever he is saying can’t possibly be making any sense.

“Just fuck?” Draco asks him with an arched eyebrow and a comical grin playing around his lips. Harry glares daggers at him but doesn’t say anything for a while.  
  
“You know what I meant to say,” he mumbles and Draco’s soft chuckle makes the butterflies in his stomach do backflips.

“I know,” he says and Harry flinches a little when Draco takes his hand and squeezes it gently. “Instead, you made the most unlikely new friend, discovered you’re actually gay and now you want to—,”

Harry thinks Draco deliberately left his sentence unfinished, closes his eyes, and thinks that after he’s said what he’s about to say it’s just going to have to be Draco for the rest of his life because there’s no way that he’s ever going to expose himself like that in front of anyone else ever again. He gathers every ounce of his Gryffindor bravery and takes a deep breath. “Date you,” he whispers, looks out over the Black Lake, and doesn’t at all resist when Draco cups his cheek and uses gentle force to get him to look at him.

“I like you an awful lot, Harry Potter,” Draco confesses and Harry’s heart flutters and skips several beats when Draco suddenly leans closer but not close enough to actually kiss him.

“I think I—I—I might just—, lo— _like_ you too,” Harry stammers, his heart beating wildly. He fervently tries to summon some more of that courage from two weeks ago, when he kissed Draco in the middle of Hogsmeade, but comes up empty and feels stupid. He wants to know why this has to be so hard and thinks he doesn’t have the words to describe how he feels about Draco. All he knows is that Draco makes him happier than he’s felt in a long, long time. He doesn’t make him forget the war, he doesn’t ease the pain Harry feels almost every day, and he doesn’t expect him to be extraordinary. He does, however, have quite a knack for showing up when Harry needs the distraction of a good friend the most and never forces him to talk about the war, never asks, never pushes. Hermione and Ron, they want to know about his nightmares, are convinced that talking about them will help him deal with it. Draco, on the other hand, he merely quietly slips him a draught of peace, smiles a knowing smile and pushes a book on defensive spells or a tattered copy _Advanced Duelling Theories For Junior Aurors_ into his hands. Harry can’t help but wonder if that is the reason, he feels so utterly content in Draco’s company, can’t help but wonder whether that’s why Hermione and Ron are _(more or less)_ supportive of his and Draco’s tender friendship. They’re both as damaged as each other, yet whenever they’re together Harry feels whole, as whole as he thinks he’ll ever be. He doesn’t know if any of that makes any sense at all and hopes that Draco will never ever ask him to explain himself or his feelings because he highly doubts, he’d be able to find the right words…or any words for that matter. “I want to be with you, like, I want to be your boyfriend,” Harry whispers, his eyes never leaving Draco’s, and suddenly a bucketload of courage makes him reach out and draw Draco closer. He presses his lips against Draco’s and kisses him fiercely, pours all those confusing emotions into the kiss and fervently hopes that Draco understands what he’s trying to say.

When they break away from the kiss, Harry is breathless and upon opening his eyes he notes that Draco’s cheeks are flushed and that he’s flustered and not at all cool and composed.

“Just—,” Draco whispers. “Just don’t play with me,” he pleads and for several seconds Harry forgets how to breathe.

“I would never,” he murmurs and doesn’t at all trust himself to speak. He takes a deep breath, takes both of Draco’s hands into his own and squeezes tightly. “You—, you are, I—, I want—,”

“Stop babbling, Potter, it’s unbecoming, or has nobody ever told you that silence is golden?” Draco teases him with a devilish smirk and for a tiny second Harry wants to wrestle him into the Back Lake, but merely smiles, then gives in to the urge to stupidly grin from ear to ear.

“Malfoy, you and I, they’ll be writing books about us,” he says and Draco rolls his eyes at him.

“More like gossip columns in _The Prophet_ ,” he corrects pointedly. “If we don’t kill each other first, that is,” he adds and Harry chuckles.

“You’ll never beat me in a duel, Malfoy,” he says confidently and Draco raises an eyebrow at him.

“Overconfidence is dangerous, Potter.”

“I’m not scared of you,” Harry shrugs, draws Draco into another kiss and stupidly wishes on a star.


	25. Eyes

> _### For your eyes only, the nights are never cold_
> 
> _You really know me, that's all I need to know_
> 
> _Maybe I'm an open book because I know you're mine,_
> 
> _But you won't need to read between the lines ###_

“People with grey eyes are very rare and very beautiful,” Harry whispers, presses his mouth to Draco’s ear, rests both hands on Draco’s shoulders, let’s them slowly slide down to Draco’s biceps and squeezes the flexing muscle beneath the taut skin. He positively delights in the tiny shocks of pleasure his touch sends through Draco’s body, making him shudder and watches how he flexes his fingers, lifts them off the keyboard of his laptop — his _new Muggle toy to help him write faster_ — and pauses mid-sentence. Harry smirks devilishly, takes great pleasure over the fact that getting under Draco’s skin is practically effortless. Or maybe it was always effortless? Since been a decade and a half since they first met and Harry isn’t so sure anymore.

“Potter, are you high?” Draco asks him, twists around in his chair, tilts his neck, and fixes him with his beautiful smoky eyes, intense and scrutinising. Harry holds his gaze and a warm, small chuckle bubbles up from the depths of his chest and slips past his lips.

“Possibly,” he admits shamelessly and Draco frowns, narrows his eyes somewhat and Harry counts several thin tendrils of pristine, metallic silver weaving through the smoky grey of his eyes and a barely visible ring of pale blue surrounding Draco’s onyx-black pupils.

“What on earth did you take?” Draco questions him and Harry notes that his fingers are still hovering over the keyboard, flexing a little as though Draco can’t quite decide whether to ignore him and continue writing or give up on it altogether. He glances at the writing on the screen, furrows his eyebrows, struggles to make sense of the words, gives up and focuses his attention back on Draco’s irresistible ashen orbs.

“You,” Harry laughs, straightens up and slides into the chair nearest to Draco, who sighs, presses a combination of buttons on his laptop keyboard and snaps the lid firmly shut.

“Do we need to take a trip to St Mungo’s, Potter?”

“Nuh-huh, your mysterious and dark soul is the only cure I need,” Harrys replies in a sing-song voice and winks at Draco, who looks positively horrified. Harry watches him reach for his wand and doesn’t even flinch when Draco points it at him, mumbles an incantation and swishes his wand.

“ _Finite Incantatem_!”

“I’m not under a spell,” Harry laughs and resolutely pushes Draco’s wand away when he attempts to cast another spell. “I’m just ensnared by _you_ , Draco Malfoy,” he whispers, reaches for Draco’s hand, gently kisses the back of it and winks at his bewildered-looking husband. He continues his charade until Draco resolutely moves his chair back, rises to his feet and crosses his arms over his chest.

“That’s it, I’m fire-calling Granger, you are clearly suffering from spell damage. That or somebody at the Ministry slipped you a love potion, which wouldn’t be surprising really what with how you leave your coffee mug standing about absolutely everywhere.” Draco informs him and just as he’s about to turn on his heel and leave the room, Harry jumps to his feet, lunges forward, grabs his wrist and stops him from doing so.

“I can ensure you that I do not suffer from any kind of spell damage and nobody slipped me a love potion either,” Harry smiles. “In any case, why would anyone want to slip me something that would cause me to be infatuated with you? We’re already married.”

He observes Draco carefully, watches the way his forehead creases as he considers Harry’s words, watches his eyes darken ever so subtly and grins when Draco lets out a small sigh and visibly relaxes in his presence. Harry loosens his hold on Draco’s wrist, hesitates for a moment, then let’s go.

“What did you say to me when I asked you if you really wanted to be friends with me?” Draco asks and Harry rolls his eyes and sighs, thinks, _not that again_.

“Trusting you is my decision. Proving me right is your choice,” he dutifully answers. “For fuck’s sake, it’s me, Draco, I was just having a bit of a laugh with you,” he says, feeling rather miffed at Draco’s, at times, mistrusting nature.

“You were rather out of character, forgive me for wanting to make sure,” Draco shrugs. “Wouldn’t want to spill my deepest, darkest desires about you splayed across our bed, tightly bound to the headboard, begging me to fuck you hard to just anyone,” he says with such an air of nonchalance that Harry doesn’t know whether to throttle him or wrestle him to the ground and defile him right here on top of the rug in the middle of his study.

“Malfoy, you play foul,” he whispers, takes a deep breath, and silently wills the overload of oxygen to help him relax. It only serves to make him feel dizzy.

“Slytherin right of passage,” Draco winks at him and Harry groans.

“Merlin, remind me why I married you!” he laments and Draco laughs. Harry fixes his eyes on Draco, watches the way his eyes twinkle and his lips curl into the most delightful smile. Unable to resist, Harry laughs too, reaches for Draco, and pulls him into his arms. He frames Draco’s face, presses his lips against Draco’s and kisses him soundly and doesn’t resist when Draco parts his lips, teases him with the tip of his warm, wet tongue and entices him to deepen the kiss. They duel for several minutes and when they pull away, they’re both breathless and flushed.

“That’s why you married me,” Draco breathes and Harry rolls his eyes, thinks it’s one reason but most definitely not the only one and turns his back on his husband. He grabs Draco’s coffee mug from his desk and lifts it to his lips, closing his eyes at the arousing scent of freshly brewed strong coffee. Thankfully, the black goodness is still hot and he takes several small sips and thoroughly enjoys the reviving nature of the caffeine, though it’s not as if he needs any reviving. Draco’s kiss was more than enough. He shudders a little when Draco pulls a rolled-up Muggle magazine out of the back pocket of his tattered _I’m-staying-at-home-and-don’t-give-a-fuck-about-dress-code-_ jeans and silently counts, waits for Draco’s reaction. “Care to explain to me why you’re reading a rag that promises to instruct its readers on _10 Ways To Achieve The Perfect Female Orgasm_?” Draco questions him and Harry glances back at him over his shoulder and smirks. “Anything you’d like to tell me, Potter?” Draco quirks an eyebrow at him and his amused grin diabolical to say the least.

“Can I talk you into taking some Polyjuice Potion so that I can fuck you six ways to Sunday?” he asks with a perfectly straight face and Draco fixes him with an unreadable expression.

“The article says _ten ways_ ,” he eventually points out and Harry laughs. It’s a loud and unrestrained laugh and he nearly spills some of Draco’s coffee from the effort it takes him not to double over. Of all the things Draco would have said to that, of all the temper tantrums he could have thrown and all the stinging hexes he could have cast, this is his response. It is just so Draco. Harry can’t help but think being married to Draco absolutely and irrefutably makes him the luckiest man on earth.

“Is there nothing that will shock you?” he demands to know.

“Not when there’s nothing to be shocked about, Potter, you’re an abysmal liar, I know you love my cock, you’d never trade it for a pussy,” Draco smiles sweetly and Harry watches him leaf through the magazine and doesn’t say anything for a while. “Now, again, why _are_ _you_ reading this rag?” Draco eventually wants to know but doesn’t look up from the pages of the magazine.

“Hermione was in an urgent firecall with the US Secretary of State and I was bored. It was either an insanely boring and thoroughly dry draft of a bill on I don’t remember what law she wants to change now or _that_ ,” Harry shrugs, motions towards the magazine in Draco hands, then proceeds to insist on Draco telling him how he so very instantly knew that he wasn’t serious about asking Draco to take Polyjuice Potion to turn himself into a woman.

Draco stops leafing through the magazine, looks at him and smirks. “Your eyes,” he states. “They betray you every time you try to lie.”

“Hmm, that article was right after all then,” Harry muses, mumbling more to himself than in response to Draco’s statement and flops into Draco’s chair. He leans back, stretches his legs luxuriously and finishes off Draco’s coffee. He pointedly ignores Draco’s glare, sets the coffee mug down on the desk behind him and folds his arms behind his head. “Page 124, if you’re curious,” he answers Draco’s question before his husband has the chance to actually ask it. He watches Draco leaf through the magazine, waits for him to find the right page and curiously watches him read. He quite likes the way Draco’s lips move, forming the words as he reads them, whenever he’s reading to himself but thinks that Draco is probably unaware of his little quirk. Harry, rather selfishly, doesn’t want to make him aware. He enjoys it too much.

“Naturally curious, adventurous and very intuitive, a green-eyed person is always easy to talk to and makes for an excellent lover,” Draco reads aloud, looks up from the magazine and smirks. Harry easily holds his gaze and shudders, knows what Draco is trying to imply. “Hmm, I can vouch for that, you are an _excellent_ lover,” he says and Harry can’t deny that he likes the compliment, likes it very much.

“You’re not so bad yourself, Malfoy,” he throws back and chuckles when Draco glares daggers.

“Not so bad?” he queries of a look of absolute indignation.

“I would say that you’re fucking brilliant but I’m worried it’ll go to your head,” Harry shrugs and for a moment, he wishes they had a house elf. He wants more coffee, although a tea would also be okay, but he can’t be arsed to head three floors down and into the kitchen to make himself some.

“That’s the last place it’ll go,” Draco laughs and continues to read. Harry takes the opportunity to give him a thorough once-over, which is, he thinks, a favourite pastime of his and one he highly doubts he’ll ever grow tired of. He knows every nook and cranny of Draco’s body, knows the place of every scar, knows where Draco likes to be touched and how and knows which places to avoid. He rather prides himself over the fact that he knows everything there is to know about Draco, or at least he likes to think he does, but it’s never made him lazy, it’s never made him not bother to look, touch, feel, explore, learn, ask. “Green is the _rarest_ of eye colours, naturally occurring in only 2% of the world's population,” Draco suddenly reads out, pauses, and fixes Harry with a killer smile that makes Harry blush just a little. “I don’t actually think I’ve ever met anyone else with eyes as green as yours,” he whispers.

Harry purses his lips, sighs wistfully and turns in Draco’s chair, turns to look out of the window and feels a rather uncomfortable, and somewhat painful, tugging in his chest. His eyes water and he blinks furiously, refuses to let the tears fall. “She had green eyes,” he murmurs as the memories he’s been trying to ignore all day come crashing down on him like the furious wave of ocean water.

“Hey,” Draco says, his voice inexplicably soft. He turns the chair a little and Harry doesn’t protest when he slides onto his lap and wraps both arms around him. Instead, he buries his face in Draco’s chest, closes his eyes and inhales deeply, breathes in Draco’s scent — _sandalwood, pine, and something citrusy_ — and allows it to relax him. “You’re allowed to miss her,” Draco tells him quietly. Harry sighs and relishes in the feel of Draco’s fingers winding themselves through his messy hair.

“Even at 35?” he childishly wants to know.

“Even at 35,” Draco affirms. “And at forty and 45 and fifty, even at ninety. She _is_ your mother, she will always be your mother.”

Harry likes the fact that Draco never uses the past tense when they talk about his mother, which they almost never do but when they do Draco always makes him feel like she just popped out to Diagon Alley and will be back any moment. He appreciates it more than anything and instinctively wraps his arms around Draco’s waist, squeezes tightly and does something he seldom does because it just hurts _too fucking much_ to remember. Right this moment he gives in to the desire to remember the woman who loved him so much she willingly died for him when he was just an infant and recalls the bittersweet moment at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, when he turned the resurrection stone and his mother, father, Remus, and Sirius appeared to walk with him to his death. His tears are wet and hot against his cheeks, they burn into his skin, and he knows Draco can feel them seep through his clothes but he says nothing. He doesn’t even shush, just lets him have his moment and despite all their banter, all the nonsense they say to each other all day long, Harry bravely lifts his head, looks into Draco’s stunningly expressive grey eyes, warm like the pale smoke rising from the dying flames of their living room fireplace. “ _This_ is why I married you,” he whispers, his voice all cracked and raw and barely audible. Draco smiles at him and Harry closes his eyes, lets Draco kiss his tears away, just like he always does, and sighs. _This_ is something he cannot put into words, wouldn’t even know where to begin, but doesn’t need to, because Draco knows. He understands, always has, and always will.

“I love you,” Draco murmurs against his cheek and fresh tears spill over the rim of his eyes and down Harry’s cheeks. He feels Draco draw him even closer, then the very familiar tug of apparition washes over him and they both disappear from Draco’s study only to reappear in the small cemetery in Godric’s Hollow. Harry sinks to his knees in front of his parents’ grave, stares at the inscription on their gravestone and smiles weakly as Draco conjures a wreath of pure white lilies for his parents. He searches for Draco’s hand squeezes it firmly and thinks that he really, absolutely, and irrefutably hates the 31st of October. It’s the same each year. No matter how much of an effort he makes to distract himself from the fact that it’s the anniversary of his parents’ death, they always, and without fail, end up in Godric’s Hollow at some point during the day. Ever since that one time, he caught Draco kneeling in front of his parents’ grave asking for his hand in marriage, ever since that day, it’s always Draco who takes him to see his parents and it always makes him feel better.


	26. Story

With an angry growl, Harry balls up the letter, he’s just finished reading and tosses it into the living room fireplace. The flames hiss and crackle and snap at the paper. He watches them with morbid fascination, watches them tenderly lick at the thick, cream parchment, watches its edges slowly burn bright red, turn black, crumble, and finally turn to ash. The satisfaction of it makes his lips curl upward in a smirk but the smile falters almost as soon as Draco speaks.

“You do realise that burning all their letters isn’t going to make them stop asking you, don’t you?” Draco asks him and Harry turns his head and frowns at his husband, who is reclining on their sofa with Lily Nox Potter-Malfoy curled up in his lap. She’s fast asleep and Harry envies her. He wants that spot, wants it desperately, wants to curl up on the sofa with his head resting in Draco’s lap, wants Draco to run his fingers through his hair, wants to close his eyes and just _enjoy_. He supposes he could move their cat, could tell her to find another place to sleep, but he doesn’t. In all the time they’ve had her, he has never told her to move and isn’t about to start now. Instead, he sits down on the sofa, allows Draco to put his feet in his lap and starts massaging them.

“I know,” he eventually answers Draco’s question, looks at him and sighs. “Are they ever going to stop asking?”

“No,” Draco says. “In case you forgot, you are Harry Potter. _The Boy Who Lived_. _The Chosen One_. You vanquished Voldemort. Even telling them to fuck off isn’t going to stop them,” Draco doesn’t mince his words, never has and Harry doubts he ever will, but boy does he hate it when Draco calls him _those_ names, even when he’s not doing it to tease which is the only reason Draco usually resorts to those sort of names. He snarls angrily, squeezes that spot between Draco’s big toe and his long toe, the one that makes Draco yelp and grimace because it hurts just enough to be uncomfortable not doesn’t hurt enough to cause him any real pain.

“Don’t call me _that_ ,” Harry spits through gritted teeth and pulls a face when Draco laughs.

“Prefer _Scarhead_ , don’t you, Potter?” he drawls, his voice silky and his posh accent strong, stronger than it usually is. Harry knows he’s doing it on purpose, is doing it to rile him up. “Or would _Golden Boy_ be more to your liking?” Draco continues to tease and Harry responds with a wandless, wordless stinging hex. He aims it squarely at Draco’s arse and laughs when Draco gives a rather high-pitched shriek — _one he’ll never admit to making, even if Harry plays him the memory back in their Pensieve_ — and bucks his hips, waking their cat from her nap in the process. She gives Draco a reproachful look and Harry feels a bit sorry for her. She isn’t, after all, as young as she once was. He does, however, chuckle when she swipes at Draco with her paw, jumps off his lap, slowly moves across the room and curls up on top of one of the armchairs instead. She’s soon joined by her daughter and within seconds the two furry bundles of black are fast asleep.

“You’ll pay for this,” Draco glowers at him and Harry shrugs, counts to three and casts a lazy and very basic shield charm. Draco’s jinx, whatever it was, easily bounces off his shield and disappears into the flames of their fireplace.

“Gotta be faster than that, Malfoy, if you wanna beat an Auror,” he teases and wonders whether Draco will challenge him to a duel. He is excellent but when it comes to chasing bad guys, Harry’s had well over twenty years of experience — and that’s not counting the seven years he spent trying to stay alive while Voldemort’s minions repeatedly tried to murder him.

“You’re lucky we’re married,” Draco tells him and Harry scoffs.

“Why, so you can use that as an excuse instead of admitting that you don’t stand a chance?”

Draco merely raises an eyebrow at him and Harry boldly holds his gaze. They both know that Draco does stand a chance, has, in fact, knocked Harry on his arse in a duel once or twice — and not because Harry let him but because, and Harry is loath to admit this, Draco can read him like a book and shamelessly used that to his advantage when choosing his jinxes, hexes, and curses. Harry thinks Draco doesn’t even need to resolve to Legilimency to know what he’s thinking.

“Seriously, Harry, it’s just a biography,” Draco resolutely changes the topic back to what they were about to discuss earlier, before they got side-tracked, as they usually do. Sometimes Harry wonders how they manage to get anything done. “They keep asking because they respect you but if you keep turning them down, someone will eventually simply write an unauthorised biography and that’s going to be full of shit and you know it.”

“I’ll sue,” Harry purses his lips and sulks petulantly when Draco laughs in response.

“Married to a published author and you still haven’t got the basics down,” he rolls his eyes. “It isn’t libel if it’s just a load of drivel, _my love_.”

“Even _if_ I agree to an official biography, it’s still going to be a load of drivel,” Harry sighs. “They’ll find a way to twist my words, they always do. You, of all people, should know.”

“Not if the author you sit down with is any good.”

“You mean like _you_?” Harry asks with a teasing smirk.

“Talking boastfully about oneself or one's achievements is rather unattractive, don’t you think?” Draco drawls but there’s that cheeky glint in his eyes, the one Harry is hopelessly in love with.

“That’s never stopped you before,” Harry continues to provoke him, even though he knows perfectly well that he’s pushing the boundaries.

“You’re walking on very thin ice here, Potter, I’d be careful if I was you,” Draco reminds him with a very stern glare and Harry smirks because he knows, one way or another, he’ll enjoy whatever Draco chooses to do to punish him. Over the years it’s become a bit of a game between them both. Then again, riling each other up has always been a game between them. “My publisher offered me five million galleons to write your biography,” Draco says, rather unexpectedly, and Harry gapes. For a moment, he doesn’t know what to say to that. Draco’s never written anything about him without his explicit approval and even then, only if he absolutely couldn’t avoid it.

“When?”

“They’ve offered several times over the years, my agent has badgered me about it too,” Draco shrugs and Harry feels a little perturbed about the news but tries his best not to let it show. He doubts he’s successful. When it comes to him, Draco has a knack for being able to read between the lines, has a knack for being able to hear the things he doesn’t say.

“You never told me,” Harry mumbles, focuses his attention on Draco’s feet and draws an intricate pattern of several different wand movements on his sock-covered fore- and midfoot. “Did you accept?” he wants to know but doesn’t look at his husband. Instead, he continues to consider Draco’s foot to be the single most interesting thing in the world.

“Do I really need to answer that question, _Harry_?” Draco asks him and Harry can’t help but look up.

“No,” he shakes his head and means it. He doesn’t need Draco to tell him what he told his publisher. He knows. “It’s an obscene amount of money,” he notes and searches for something in Draco’s eyes. He isn’t exactly sure what he’s looking for but whatever it is, it’s not there. The only thing that he does find in Draco’s eyes is love. Then again, that’s a constant, he can always find that there, even when they’re fighting.

“It is,” Draco affirms. “My marriage, however, is priceless.”

“Do you want—?” Harry breaks off, stops himself from finishing his question because he knows the answer to that one too. He takes a moment to consider, thinks of all the persistent letters he’s been getting — _publishers and authors alike asking for the exclusive rights to his life’s story_ — and thinks he’s too young to see his face on the cover of a book titled _Harry Potter: A Biography_. At forty-something, he is, however, also mature enough to understand that he’ll never lead an ordinary life and that Draco is right. People will keep asking and if he keeps ignoring them, someone will eventually publish a book full of complete and utter tripe. He reminds himself that he’s in the unique position to prevent that, reminds himself how he’s learnt to deal with _The Prophet_ , and what a steep learning curve it’s been to realise that pushing the press away does more damage than good. And so, he surprises himself a little with what he says next. “Write it,” he says with a sense of conviction that tells him he hasn’t really thought this through but is merely acting on a whim, quite possibly because he’s under the influence of that stupid Gryffindor bravery or suffers from a _bout of temporary insanity_ as Draco likes to call it.

“Excuse me?” Draco asks and looks rather taken aback.

“You heard me,” Harry says and keeps his eyes locked on Draco as he continues, “I said write it.”

“You want me to write your biography?” Draco asks and Harry notes the somewhat gobsmacked expression that still lingers on his face.

“Yes,” he nods. “Yes, I want you to write my biography. Make it so that you’ll have the exclusive rights to the book, make it so that nobody else can ever publish one.”  
  
“You’re insane, Potter,” Draco huffs out a breath, shuffles on the sofa and moves to straddle his thighs. Harry, feeling bold and naughty, cups his husband’s arse cheeks and squeezes, pulls Draco closer against him and tilts his head upwards.

“Kiss me,” he demands and Draco looks down at him, fixes him with a scrutinising gaze. Harry parts his lips and is about to reiterate his wish when Draco does just what he asked him to do. He kisses him, hard and possessively and Harry sinks back into the sofa cushions, momentarily lets Draco assault his mouth, then kisses back with just as much vigour. He keeps his hands firmly on Draco’s arse and moans softly when Draco runs his fingers through his hair, plunges his tongue even deeper into his mouth and Harry feels dizzy and good, oh so good. “Write it,” Harry breathes when Draco breaks the kiss, quietly bemoans the loss, and wants nothing more than apparate them both upstairs and into their bedroom. Not necessarily to have sex, although that would be a definite plus, but to lie in bed, naked, in an entangled mess of limps.

“You’re insane, absolutely and utterly insane,” Draco whispers and Harry mirrors the smirk that curls his lips upward and tugs them into a wicked smile. “Fortunately for you, I have a penchant for insane,” he adds and Harry chuckles.

“Is that a yes then?”

“Anything for you, oh mighty _Saviour_ ,” Draco laughs and Harry growls.

“Draco?”

“Yes, my darling?”

“Say that again and I’ll teach you a lesson you will _never_ _ever_ forget,”

“Uh, yes, please, I’d love that. I could put that into your biography, I’d devote an entire chapter to it, _A Lesson from The Saviour of The Wizarding World Himself_ ,” Draco mocks him and Harry chuckles, his laughter a low rumble that hails from somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach.

“Exactly what kind of biography are you planning to write, Malfoy?”

“Hm,” Draco grins, leans close, presses his mouth to Harry’s ear and flicks his tongue at it. Harry groans, squeezes Draco’s buttocks and shudders when Draco sucks his earlobe into his mouth and is positively obscene about the way he sucks, nibbles and assaults that oh so sensitive spot just behind it. Harry thrusts his hips up, pushes his hardening erection against Draco’s and groans when his husband murmurs into his ear, “I’m planning to call it, _Defiling Harry Potter: Deep Inside the Chosen One_.”

“That sounds absolutely pornographic,” Harry breathes and wonders if apparating them upstairs into their bedroom is still a good decision. He’s not sure his levels of concentration are still up to the task.

“It’ll be completely and utterly depraved, a rather scandalous and thoroughly salacious account of all your dark and dirty secrets and every debauched thing you ever did to me.”

“So, really, it’ll be mostly about you, then?” Harry counters and it’s Draco’s turn to laugh. It’s a sweet, sweet sound that makes both Harry’s heart flutter with love and his cock twitch with anticipation as Draco hugs him tight and apparates them upstairs and into their bedroom. For the next hour or so, they don’t talk much, or at all, about anything, least of all Harry’s insistence that Draco write his biography.

They do however take their time to strip each other naked and Draco does let Harry worship every inch of his body, lets Harry kiss him wherever he wants to kiss him.

Harry does more than just kiss though. He teases, he nips, he licks, he bites, he works his fingers into places they aren’t ordinarily supposed to be in. Then he shoves his cock into that very same place and fucks Draco, fucks him so agonisingly slow that he’s got Draco writhing beneath him and shamelessly begging for _more_ , _harder_ , _faster_ , _take me_ , _make me yours_ , _fill me_ and _yes Harry_ , _so, so good_ , _don’t fucking stop_.

Harry reminds Draco that he already is his, kisses him fiercely and doesn’t stop until they are both breathless and Harry momentarily forgets to move inside of Draco. He also uses Draco’s submissive position and his struggle to supply his lungs with enough oxygen to his advantage and gets Draco to promise him that he’ll write that biography. Draco curses him to hell and back, calls him a closeted Slytherin and Harry denies him his orgasm. They play that game until Draco is a trembling, shuddering mess of loose limbs and quivering muscles beneath him and Harry’s energy levels are at an all-time low. It is then that Draco finally relents, promises to write that book, and comes oh so hard all over Harry’s hand and both their stomachs. Harry thrusts deep inside him and fills him with his own come, tells Draco that he loves him, then slumps on top of him, somehow manoeuvres them both onto their sides and cradles his husband in his arms because Draco is, without a doubt, the most precious thing Harry owns.


	27. Crying

The loud, high-pitched wail wakes Harry in an instant and he sits bold upright, rubs his eyes, blinks, and waves his hand to cast a wandless Tempus charm that hovers above his nightstand. _3:23 am_ , he notes frustratedly. He’s barely slept forty minutes since the last time Jamie roused him from his slumber and grumpily kicks at Draco, who groans in protest, rolls onto his front, and pointedly buries his face in his pillow.

“Your son, you get up,” comes the muffled, sleepy response to Harry’s pathetic attempt to get Draco to check on their son and with a sigh Harry throws the heavy duvet back, shudders at the cold draft that hits him, swings his feet over the edge of the bed and gets to his feet. He slides his feet into his slippers, mumbles something unkind about paying Draco back in the morning, grabs his bathrobe, throws it over his shoulders and leaves the room. He heads straight for Jamie’s nursery, pushes the door fully open, heads inside and leans over Jamie’s cot.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he whispers and reaches out to stroke Jamie’s puffy, red, tear-streaked cheek. His heart aches at the sight of his crying son and he picks his sweet little baby boy up and cradles him to his chest, carefully supporting his head. He shushes Jamie, rocks him gently, checks his nappies and even summons a warm bottle of milk from the kitchen, but Jamie doesn’t want it, resolutely refuses to even open his mouth.

Harry wonders whether he could get Draco to brew him a potion that’ll age Jamie a couple of years. It’s not that he wants him to grow up faster, it’s just that half the time he doesn’t bloody understand what Jamie wants and it’s frustrating. It’s always a guessing game and it vexes him and he doesn’t understand why looking after a baby is this difficult. “It’s alright, Jamie, daddy’s right here,” Harry mumbles reassuringly and wandlessly casts a very simple diagnostic spell the paediatric healer at St Mungo taught him. It shows that there’s nothing physically wrong with Jamie and with a heavy sigh, Harry sinks into the rocking chair across the room and gently rocks back and forth. He hopes it will calm Jamie but it fails and he’s very tempted to cast a silencing charm on his son and just sleep here in this rocking chair. He’s tired, exhausted even, and doesn’t even feel bad for regretting his decision to ask Draco to have a child together. He doesn’t remember when he’s last slept through the night and thinks that at nearly fifty, he’s most definitely too old for his kind of nonsense. Despite Jamie’s insistent wailing, Harry’s eyes fall close and he drifts off into a slight slumber with Jamie still cradled in his arms.

“James Severus Potter-Malfoy! Have you no shame? Crying for the sake of crying. What exactly is it that you hope to achieve?” Draco’s warm, sleep-laden but firm voice jerks Harry awake and he frowns at Draco.

“I don’t think that’s going to make him stop,” he mumbles and Draco smirks at him.

“Give that wailing monster to me,” Draco demands, holds his arms out and Harry unashamedly places their son in Draco’s arms and watches him expertly cradle Jamie with just one arm.

“Teddy never cried like that,” Harry remembers wistfully. _Or did he?_ He questions himself, suddenly he’s not so sure anymore. He is however quite sure that Teddy’s and Victoire’s twins never cried like that either. He sighs, watches Draco draw his wand, swish it and a moment later a magical baby mobile appears out of nowhere and floats over Jamie’s head. Tiny golden snitches, broomsticks, surprisingly realistic tiny red and green dragons and even a tiny Phoenix chase each other round and round in a circle while the soft melody of an unfamiliar nursery rhyme fills the room. Jamie’s wailing ceases almost instantly and he reaches up with his grubby little hands and tries to grab at the conjured baby mobile. Soon enough he manages to clasp his fingers around the tiny Snitch and giggles happily as the thing flutters in his hands, trying to break free.

“Potter, you just lost your title as youngest seeker of the century,” Draco laughs and Harry frowns, stares and really wants to travel back in time and change the past. No baby for him and Draco. He gets up every night — _several times!!!_ — to check on Jamie, change his nappy, feed him, play with him. He bathes him, dresses him, and takes him to all his check-ups at St Mungo’s, yet he cannot manage to get Jamie to calm down whenever he wails for no apparent reason at all. Harry’s at his wit’s end, doesn’t know what it is that he’s doing wrong and wants to give up. Being a father isn’t for him after all, he’s quite sure of that now. He desperately wants to return Jamie to sender.

Then, _ta-da_ , in comes Draco, holds Jamie for two seconds, conjures a magical mobile and a nursery rhyme and Jamie is fucking quiet and apparently also happy as Larry. Harry huffs with sleep-deprived frustration, mutters a few choice words, rises from the rocking chair, and wordlessly stalks from the room. He knows he’s too old to get worked up about this but he’s tired, cranky and in an extremely foul mood. _Barely six months old and already a goddamn Slytherin_ , he thinks to him as he returns to his and Draco’s bedroom.

Draco is always there and when it comes to raising their son, he very much pulls his weight. Just like tonight, he does get up at night — _even though he truly hates it_ — but Harry is feeling sorry for himself and does not want to be reasonable, not even a little bit. He just doesn’t understand why Draco — _seemingly without any effort at all_ — manages to accomplish the impossible. How is it that he manages to calm Jamie down in an instant? The rational part of Harry’s brain reminds him that it isn’t fair to blame Draco, that they’re both in this together, that is was their choice, but he’s completely worn out and cannot remember when he’s last enjoyed a full night’s sleep. He wants to be childish about this because he’s overtired and simply doesn’t know how else to handle the situation.

“Stalking off in a huff is my job,” Draco whispers into his ear several moments later, snakes his arms around him and hugs him from behind. He buries his face in Harry’s neck and presses a tender kiss against the warm, sensitive skin. Harry sighs and relaxes a little into the familiar embrace.

“It’s not fair,” he mumbles, “it’s not fair that Jamie is quiet when you take him but wails when I try absolutely everything to calm him.”

“James wants attention,” Draco tells him. “There’s nothing wrong with him, he just wants attention, that’s all. I suspect he senses his father gets a lot of it, so he’s trying to steal the show.”

“Clearly it’s not my attention that he wants then,” Harry huffs, feels inexplicably jealous and crosses his arms over his chest. Draco winds his long fingers underneath his forearms, undoes the knot and tenderly strokes up and down his arms. Harry sighs and wants to lash out at Draco, wants to yell at him for knowing just how to get under his skin but doesn’t because it’s what he loves about Draco. It’s what made him fall in love with Draco in the first place. This completely mystifying ability to do or say just the right thing.

“Fawkes is perched on his crib,” Draco whispers gently.  
  
“Did you call him?” Harry wants to know and instantly feels at ease. With Fawkes at Jamie’s bedside, there’s absolutely nothing that could possibly happen to him. Though why his Phoenix would bother to keep his son company is a mystery Harry doesn’t know how to solve.

“No, he appeared on his own. Your—”

“Our—” Harry corrects and Draco chuckles into his neck.

“ _Our_ son won’t leave that Snitch alone and is staring at Fawkes with the biggest, roundest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

The image Draco paints in his head amuses Harry and slowly turning in Draco’s arms, he rests his own around Draco’s shoulders and waves his hand behind his husband’s back. A few lit candles appear and float in the air near the ceiling. In their soft glow, Draco looks almost angelic and Harry wants to tell him so but kisses him instead. It’s a sweet, gentle kiss, a brief peck on the lips, but it’s perfect. “You said elves love children,” he murmurs, his lips still so close to Draco’s that he’s brushing them as he speaks.

Draco withdraws a little, gives him a curious look and smirks. “Are you finally relenting?” he asks.

“I think so,” Harry shrugs and reckons he’s finally gone and done it. He’s gone soft, soft for Draco Malfoy. It’s only taken four decades, though he thinks the first decade doesn’t count since they spent the majority of the first decade intent on making each other’s lives miserable. _You’ve always been soft for Malfoy_ ; his treacherous mind helpfully supplies and he swallows a groan.

“We’re seriously getting a house elf then?” Draco confirms and Harry sighs, thinks he’s making a colossal mistake, one he’ll possibly regret forever, and nods.

“We’re seriously getting a house elf,” he affirms, groans, and buries his face in the crook of Draco’s neck. He absolutely does not want to see that satisfied grin on Draco’s face, does not want to see that victorious glint in his eyes and most definitely doesn’t want to hear Draco say that he knew he’d wear him down eventually. Part of him feels bad for finally agreeing to a house elf, but as much as he wants to there’s no way he can retire now. He’s in charge of the entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement and there’s so much he still wants to change before he can hand the job off to someone a little younger than him. Harry thinks he’s being stupid, thinks that Jamie and Draco should take priority over his job but unfortunately, that is not how real life works and he knows it and Draco knows it too. He’s also too tired to continue that train of thought and vows to contemplate Draco’s uncharacteristic behaviour tomorrow.

“Do you want to sleep or are you giving up on that? I can make us some coffee if you want?” Draco asks and at that question, a wave of extreme weariness washes over Harry and he shakes his head.  
  
“Sleep,” he begs quietly and doesn’t resist when Draco gently manoeuvres him around, walks him to the bed, pushes him down onto the mattress and covers him with the duvet. Harry vaguely notes that it’s not his side of the bed but is too tired to move himself over to the other side. Instead, he hugs Draco’s pillow to his chest, buries his face in it and inhales deeply. Draco’s familiar scent of sandalwood, pine, and something distinctly citrusy draws him into the land of dreams and when Draco kisses the back of his head, he makes an appreciative sound and grateful for the few hours of sleep Draco will make sure he’ll get, he drifts off completely.


	28. Reflection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** I've tried to keep it light-hearted, but Draco is distraught over the death of his father, so if you at all think that this is something that might get to you, please don't read this chapter. I wouldn't want to upset you!

Harry carefully steps out onto the old wooden jetty that leads about three metres out onto the lake that is part of the imposing grounds of Malfoy Manor. He casts a quick glance back at the magnificent building, Draco grew up in, then steadfastly joins the lone figure stood at the very edge of the jetty. The lake water is perfectly calm and Draco’s reflection is smooth. Despite his all-black formal attire, Harry thinks his husband looks striking, truly breathtakingly striking. He really wants to tell him so but doesn’t think that now is the time for such compliments.

“Finally found you,” he whispers and Draco turns his head to look at him. His eyes are bloodshot, puffy, and swollen. The dark lines underneath suggest he hasn’t been sleeping, though that’s nothing new to Harry, who’s been going to bed alone and waking up alone for the past three nights. He’s tried to convince Draco to join him in bed but to no avail. Draco has taken up residence in front of the fireplace in his father’s study and no amount of persuasion will make him give up his precious spot. Harry doesn’t blame him and even though he hates going to bed alone, he understands that Draco simply needs time. Time to grief, time to heal.

“Harry,” Draco says softly, his voice hoarse and weak. It sounds like even saying Harry’s name requires an extraordinary amount of effort and something inside of Harry’s heart snaps. He takes a step closer, wraps both arms around his husband and pulls him into his arms. Draco doesn’t struggle, doesn’t hug him back, but Harry can feel him inhale deeply. He tightens his hold and doesn’t loosen it, not even when Draco’s entire body shakes and a wretched sob escapes his throat. It’s muffled by Harry’s formal, black funeral robes, but it’s so close to his heart that Harry feels it more than actually hears it, and something else snaps inside his heart. He blinks, squeezes his eyes firmly closed and vows not to give in to the urge to cry.

He doesn’t feel particularly sad — _his relationship with Lucius Malfoy wasn’t close enough for him to truly mourn his loss_ — but seeing Draco like this, it absolutely breaks his heart. Harry hurts, his heart aches terribly and his chest feels tight. It’s a little difficult to breathe. He doesn’t feel that way because his father-in-law passed away four days ago but because his husband is in excruciating pain and he doesn’t know how to fix it. For the first time ever, Harry feels useless because he simply doesn’t have the skills to make Draco better. There’s no magic in the world that will take Draco’s pain away but Harry desperately wants there to be. He can’t stand seeing Draco this way. “I can’t go in there,” Draco murmurs into his robes and in response, Harry tightens his hold on his husband. “I can’t go in there and stand in front of everyone and talk about him, I just can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Harry tells him firmly, loosens his hold on Draco, uses gentle force to make Draco look him in the eyes. He cradles Draco’s too thin face with both his hands, vows to force-feed Draco when this is all over, holds it steady and brushes Draco’s tears away with his thumbs. “Yes, you can and you will. You will go in there and you will stand there and talk about how much you loved your father and how much he meant to you.”

“They all hate him, they’ve just come to gloat, they’ve come to celebrate the fact he’s finally dead. They wanted him in Azkaban.” Draco says. He sounds so utterly dejected, and Harry wants to shake him and tell him to bloody well snap out of it but does no such thing. He’s never particularly liked Lucius Malfoy, but he understands the pain Draco feels better than anyone else. He lost too many people during the war not to understand. “You wanted him there too, you put him there once,” Draco lashes out, his eyes glimmering with anger. He tries to pull away from Harry but Harry stubbornly doesn’t let him, doesn’t even react to Draco’s petulant attempt to pick a fight because he understands that too and knows that Draco doesn’t hate him. Harry desperately wishes he could suck the pain right out of Draco.

“He was your father and he loved you and that’s all I want you to think about, for your own sake and for Narcissa’s sake,” Harry says. It still feels odd to call Draco’s mother by her given name but he’s managed to get used to it, more or less anyway.

“Why?” Draco asks him and this time Harry allows him to pull away. Draco turns to look out over the lake and Harry doesn’t answer his question because he simply doesn’t have an answer for him. He doesn’t even understand why his own parents had to die. He doesn’t understand why Sirius had to die, doesn’t understand why Remus and Tonks had to die. He absolutely doesn’t understand why so many good people had to die. He childishly thinks that dying makes no sense but doubts that telling Draco that will ease his pain over the loss of his beloved father. Instead, Harry changes the topic altogether.

“What’s your happiest memory of him?” he asks and for a while, Draco doesn’t react or respond, then he slowly turns away from the lake and looks at Harry, who notes the fresh tears that are now running down Draco’s cheeks.

“I think I was about six when dad taught me how to swim, right here in this lake. He took me out on that old rowing boat there, stripped down to his underwear and just jumped into the water, told me to come in with him. I was terrified, I didn’t want to, but he talked me into it and I did and he taught me how to swim. We swam in the lake every summer until I started Hogwarts,” Draco answers his question with a faint smile. Harry smiles back, reaches out and slips his hand into Draco’s. Their fingers interlace and Harry holds on tight. He wistfully remembers that he had to teach himself how to swim because there was no one else to do it and thinks he’d very much like to see Draco’s memory of the day he learnt how to swim.

“When I was five, I really wanted to build a snowman but it was bitter cold and mother refused to let me go outside. I threw a right temper tantrum and father summoned his warmest coat and his dragonhide boots, wrapped me up tightly, cast a warming charm over me and took me out onto the grounds. We stayed out until well after nightfall, building one snowman after the other and having an epic snow fight. Mother came out with steaming mugs of hot chocolate at some point and called him a foolish child when he hit her with a snowman. Mother charmed our snowman to life and chased dad around the grounds with it. It was rolling in the snow laughing. I seriously thought mother was the greatest witch of all time and when I told her, she ended the spell and father swooped me off my feet and told me that mother was indeed the greatest witch of all time.”

Harry laughs at that story. He simply can’t help himself, it’s too funny a story. The mental image of Narcissa Malfoy making her husband run around in the snow, trying to escape a charmed snowman that’s out to get him, well it’s too good to be true. Draco looks at him, raises an eyebrow and Harry thinks he ought to stop laughing but he cannot. To his utter astonishment, Draco’s lips curl upward and into a smile and a moment later he his laughing too. He shakes with laughter and the more Harry laughs, the more Draco laughs. Harry thinks they’re as bad as each other and even though their behaviour is entirely inappropriate for the fact that they’re about to attend a funeral, Harry doesn’t care, not even in the slightest. In his opinion, a day without the beautiful sound of Draco’s laughter is a day wasted. He takes a deep breath, pulls Draco into his arms and when his husband’s laughter slowly dies down, Harry leans in and kisses Draco, presses his lips softly against Draco’s and gives him a sweet and loving kiss. He feels Draco melt against his body, relishes in the moment, embraces him, and holds him tight.

“He made mistakes, Harry, he wasn’t a good person during the war, he…he did bad things—”

Harry sensibly shushes his husband before he chokes up again or manages to get himself worked up over the fact that his father made the colossal mistake of allowing a man like Tom Riddle to brainwash him so. “He was a good father, he loved you and today that’s all that matters,” Harry says with conviction and decides to leave the past in where it belongs, _in the past_. So, he has never been Lucius Malfoy’s biggest fan, but he is most definitely Draco Malfoy’s biggest fan and avid supporter.

“I’d be lost without you, Harry,” Draco admits feebly, averts his eyes and Harry momentarily allows him to stare at his feet because he’s too busy feeling his heart swell with all the love he feels for Draco. “I would absolutely be lost without you,” Draco reiterates, looks up again and Harry smiles.

“I’d be lost without you too,” he whispers softly and thinks they’re a right pair. There’s no denying that they belong together.

“Will you come up with me, stand at my side?” Draco asks with a forlorn look on his face and Harry nods and thinks that Draco looks a lot like a lost child and not at all like a young man of thirty-two. His chest aches again and he really just wants to take Draco’s pain away. The press still calls him The Saviour but what good is that title if he can’t even save Draco from the overwhelming sadness he feels over his father’s death?

“I will,” he assures, takes Draco’s hand once more and pulls him off the jetty. They walk back up to the Manor in comfortable silence, make their way inside and head for the large ballroom Narcissa Malfoy redecorated for the funeral of her beloved husband and Draco’s father. People are still taking their seats and Harry casts a cursory glance around. The general mood is sombre and people are looking grim. Harry can’t help but think that despite all his flaws and all the mistakes he made, Lucius was still well-liked and loved. At the very least by his family.

Harry reminds himself that he is here for Draco and resolutely pushes his musings aside. Instead, he gently guides Draco to the front of the room. Narcissa Malfoy is standing beside her husband’s casket, mindlessly fumbling with the flower arrangements on top of it and Harry can’t help but think that he is looking at a broken woman. He doesn’t let go of Draco but reaches out to squeeze her shoulder in a gesture of silent comfort. He reckons he owes her that much, she did after never once object to Draco’s life partner of choice. Her wrinkled hand comes to rest above his own and Harry feels it tremble.

“Take care of him, won’t you? He needs you,” she whispers and Harry nods solemnly. Even in the throes of grief, her first thought is still Draco. Of course, he is going to take care of Draco, he signed up for that job a long, long time ago.

“Don’t you worry,” he assures her, withdraws his hand, stirs Draco towards one of the seats in the first row and pushes him into it. It’ll be a while still before Draco will have to step up to read the eulogy he wrote for his father.


	29. Quidditch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deb, my love, I humbly apologise to you for making you brainstorm with me only to throw it all out of the window, but I absolutely blame the boys and their lack of submission for what happened with this chapter! Anyways, what I really meant to say is, that you're fabulous and I love you.

“Oh no, Potter, you don’t!” Draco bellows and forces his broom into a steep descend, cuts Harry’s path and chases after the Snitch at breakneck speed. Harry slows his broom, hovers in mid-air, and unashamedly stares after the blur of Draco’s billowing Quidditch robes. He is momentarily — _and whole-heartedly_ — distracted by the sight of Draco astride his broom, but snaps back into action when he catches sight of a tiny winged golden ball shimmering in the sunlight. He squints, focuses on the Snitch and chases after it. He overtakes Draco easily, his Firebolt being just that little bit faster and just that little bit easier to control than Draco’s Nimbus 2001. He dives faster, plummets to the ground so fast that he is almost dizzy from the adrenaline rush. In the very last moment, and just several feet off the ground, he levels his broom out, speeds across the pitch, and reaches out with the very intention to close his fingers around the Snitch when the winged ball veers off course and flies away. Harry curses under his breath, hovers and at the sound of Draco’s loud and unrestrained laughter, he turns his broom around and glares at Draco.

“I have no idea why you’re laughing, you didn’t catch it either!” Harry snaps and ducks to avoid a bludger.

“But I will,” Draco smirks and Harry scoffs.

“Not if I can help it,” he bites back. There is absolutely no way he’s going to let Draco catch the Snitch, he never has before and he isn’t about to change things up now. It’s their very last Quidditch match — _a friendly match among all the seventh-year students which includes anyone who, post-war, returned to finish their education_ — at Hogwarts before they leave school for good and the serious side of life well and truly starts for them both…and everyone else. He and Draco have officially been a couple for a little over a month and Harry still feels delirious with the thrill of having someone to hold hands with, someone to snog senseless, someone whose arms to fall asleep in. He isn’t, however, about to start slacking off during a Quidditch match just because he and Draco are playing against each other. He thinks that Draco seems to be under the impression that he is going to let him win, is going to let him catch the Snitch, but Harry isn’t at all inclined to ignore his competitive side in favour of keeping Draco happy. _You’ll regret this_ , _you absolutely will_ , his mind tells him but he resolutely ignores it, lets his eyes dart around the pitch and remains alert and on the outlook for anything that looks even just remotely like the Snitch.

He decides that hovering above the ground and allowing Draco to glare daggers at him isn’t going to help his team win the match and ascents slowly and without hurry. He narrowly avoids another two bludgers, cheers excitedly when his team scores and circles the pitch twice in his search of the Snitch. Draco catches up with him soon enough and they fly side by side.

“Potter, it would really be in your best interest to forfeit the game,” Draco drawls and Harry gives him a rather incredulous sideways glance.

“Malfoy, keep dreaming. Either you catch the Snitch fair and square or not at all. Those are the two choices you have,” Harry retorts, rises a little higher and smirks when Draco levels with him. “Really? You’re just going to trail me in the hope that I’ll spot the Snitch for you?” he mocks Draco, who narrows his eyes and glowers at him.

“Why should I do all the hard work when I can let you do it for me?” Draco smirks and Harry rolls his eyes.

“Lazy bastard.”

“If I was you, I’d be careful Potter, there are only so many insults you can throw at your boyfriend before said boyfriend takes offence and decides to ignore you for the remaining three weeks of the school term. And by _ignore_ , I mean completely ignore.”

“Like you would, Malfoy like you would,” Harry dismisses Draco’s veiled threat light-heartedly but inwardly he does worry about what Draco may do if his team loses the match because Harry catches the Snitch. Still, his Gryffindor pride does not allow him to give in and throw the game and when he, a short while later, spots the Snitch on the other side of the pitch, he chases after it with Draco hot on his tail. They engage in a series of extremely precarious manoeuvres up high above the ground and at some point, they both almost fall of their brooms but manage to steady themselves without sustaining life-threatening injuries. It is shortly after that, that Harry makes a short dive for the Snitch, firmly closes his fingers around the struggling winged ball and therefore ends the match in his team’s favour.

* * *

“You’re not seriously pissed I didn’t let you win, are you?” Harry asks much later that day when he and Draco are lounging on an old school bench, inside a locked, abandoned classroom, that Harry managed to transfigure into a very comfortable dark-green sofa. He’d wanted a red one, but after the result of today’s Quidditch match and Draco subsequently stalking off the pitch and back to the castle, — _and ignoring him all throughout dinner_ — Harry didn’t dare to conjure anything Gryffindor-themed. Draco doesn’t reply immediately and Harry worries his bottom lip and watches him scribble away in his little black book. “Draco…” he prompts softly and makes another attempt at getting Draco’s attention. Draco’s quill stills and when he turns his head to look at him Harry holds his breath.

“Of course, I am pissed,” he says, his voice low and Harry sighs. He knew it! _Ron told you he’d be high maintenance_ , his mind chirps in.

“You know that letting you win would have been cheating,” he tries to reason with Draco, though he really doesn’t think it’s going to be at all useful. _He’s a Slytherin_ , his mind informs him helpfully and Harry grinds his teeth. _Why does dating have to be so hard?_ It feels a bit like he and Draco are playing a game that he doesn’t know the rules to, yet Draco seems to be making one calculated move after the other, which only serves to make Harry feel worse. Not that he’s told Draco…

“I know,” Draco replies and Harry thinks that the smile that spreads across his face is positively terrifying. Quite possibly even more terrifying than the prospect of facing a Hungarian Horntail. He promptly decides not to tell Draco he’s just compared him to a Hungarian Horntail in his mind.

“I don’t cheat,” Harry says, desperately wants to sound determined but, to his horror, realises that he sounds rather pathetic and not in the least bit manly. Also, why is his voice so bloody high?

“Really?” Draco quirks an eyebrow at him and Harry swallows hard, watches Draco snap his diary closed and place both it and his quill inside his black leather satchel. When he turns to face Harry again, Harry’s mouth goes dry and he clenches his hands, then flexes his fingers. “I was rather under the impression you had a penchant for breaking the rules, Potter,” Draco whispers and Harry watches him shuffle on the transfigured sofa, watches him come crawling closer. Harry’s breath catches in his throat and he quickly shoves his hands under his thighs to disguise the fact that they are shaking.

“Ma— Dra—,” Harry attempts, clears his throat, and tries again, “Draco.”

“Yes, Harry?” Draco smirks, crawls even closer and brings his face within inches of Harry’s. “Don’t you think you owe me at least a consolation prize?” he asks and Harry shudders and opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. No words come out and he gives up, shudders at the predatory look in Draco’s eyes and lets out a shaky breath.

“Wha— What d—did you ha—have in mind?” he asks and Draco’s amused laugh travels right down his spine and ends in his groin. His entire body shakes like a leaf and he wonders if Draco can tell, wonders if he can see how nervous he feels, though he doesn’t understand what’s there to be nervous about. He’s with Draco and he’s had a year to feel comfortable around him, yet he feels completely and utterly out of his depths and just a little bit foolish.

“Uh, I don’t know, something to make me feel better about my loss,” Draco shrugs nonchalantly and Harry bites his bottom lip and continues to feel inexplicably nervous.

“Like what?” he wants to know and isn’t at all sure whether he really wants to hear the answer to his question. He has the strange sense of foreboding that Draco is going to demand something— “A kiss!” he blurts out and before Draco can say anything in response to that, he reaches for Draco’s shirt, pulls him in and presses his lips against Draco’s in a fierce kiss. It takes Draco a moment to respond to the kiss, but he does and he even runs his fingers through Harry’s hair. Harry moans softly into their kiss, slides his arms up Draco’s chest and down his arms and towards his hips. He grabs both hips, pulls Draco closer, slides his arms around Draco’s waist and pulls him into his lap. He purposefully deepens the kiss, seeks out Draco’s tongue and winds his own around it. He’s rather pleased when Draco makes a series of small appreciative sounds. Harry does not break away from the kiss until he absolutely cannot stand the lack of oxygen in his lungs anymore and feels too dizzy to properly concentrate on the kiss.

Draco looks at him with dark eyes and Harry thinks his own must be at least several shades darker than usual. “Do you feel better now?” he asks breathlessly and Draco smirks.  
  
“A little,” he replies then adds, “but I think it’s going to take a little more than just a kiss to really improve my mood.”

Harry’s breath once again catches in his throat and his palms feel clammy. He twists them into Draco’s shirt and clenches tight. “Wha— what would make you feel even better?”

“Hm, I don’t know—” Draco says and Harry thinks that Draco does know and is purposefully stalling for time to make his life miserable.

“Just tell me already,” he begs.

“A blowjob would make me feel extraordinarily good,” Draco drops the bombshell on him and Harry shudders and says nothing because he doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s not like he doesn’t want to do it, it’s just that he’s not sure of how to do it properly and he feels stupid. He’d been hoping to stall until they get back to London and he can get his hands on some — _hopefully helpful_ — literature, but judging by the wanton look in Draco’s eyes, Harry thinks his luck has run out.

“I— I—,” he stammers and is actually grateful when Draco shushes him, presses his lips against his cheek and kisses him sweetly.

“Only if you want to, if you don’t, it’s okay, I can wait,” he whispers into Harry’s ear and Harry shudders and doesn’t quite understand why but feels utterly turned on, so turned on in fact that it’s actually slightly painful. Even more so when Draco gently tucks at his hand, guides it to his crotch and lets him feel his erection. “That’s what you do to me when you fly,” he whispers and Harry swallows hard, shudders and presses his hand against the hard flesh beneath Draco’s black cotton trousers. “I’m not mad you caught the Snitch, just so fucking turned on it’s making me dizzy,” Draco tells him, his voice still only a whisper and so close to Harry’s ear that he can feel Draco’s breath on his skin.

“Fuck—” Harry breathes and inhales sharply.

“I’d love that too, but that’s moving a bit fast, don’t you think?” Draco says and Harry nods vigorously. Yes, absolutely, too fast, way too fast. His mind disagrees and supplies him with vivid images of him and Draco, naked, rolling about the sheets. He groans, unashamedly.

“I want you,” he finds himself telling Draco, flushes a little and kisses Draco’s cheek. Draco moves his head a little and their lips find each other in a heady kiss. Harry manages to twist one hand into Draco’s silky soft blond hair and doesn’t remove his other hand from Draco’s crotch but awkwardly and very nervously fumbles with the top button of Draco’s trousers. His hand shakes and he is truly grateful when Draco pushes his hand between their bodies and helps him undo the button. He hesitantly drags the zipper of Draco’s trousers down, slips his hand inside and palms Draco’s hard cock through his underwear. His hand continues to tremble and he increases the pressure and shudders when Draco gently thrusts into the touch and increases the intensity of their kiss. Harry boldly shoves two fingers inside the slit of Draco’s underwear and when his fingers make contact with Draco’s throbbing erection, he can’t help but moan into their kiss. He rubs his fingers along the hard shaft of Draco’s cock, draws a low moan from Draco’s chest and his hips actually leave the sofa when Draco’s hand finds his crotch and squeezes his own erection through his jeans.

Draco breaks their kiss, pants breathlessly and stares at him with such intensity that Harry wonders whether he’s going to faint, he feels so dizzy.

“Please…” Draco begs him and Harry has no idea what exactly Draco is asking for. He doesn’t know whether Draco still wants that blowjob or whether he wants Harry to touch him properly but he doesn’t care. Instead, he withdraws his fingers, awkwardly uses both his hands to push Draco’s trousers and his underwear down his arse and to his mid-thighs. Draco’s erection springs free and though Harry can’t see it, for he intently and purposefully keeps his eyes locked on Draco, he can feel it. He wraps his fingers around Draco’s shaft, hesitantly moves his fist up and down and bites his lip when Draco’s Adam’s apple bobs as Draco swallows hard. He watches Draco’s lips part, watches Draco’s pink tongue dart out to wet his lips and then locks eyes with Draco. A weird sensation watches over Harry and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this turned on in his entire life. He moves his hand a little faster and Draco’s eyelids flutter but he fights to keep his eyes open, fights to keep looking at him and continues to squeeze Harry’s own erection, rubbing his palm over it.

“You’re so hot,” Harry whispers.

“Don’t stop, _please_ , don’t stop,” Draco begs him insistently and Harry vows that he won’t but doesn’t say the words aloud. Instead, he adjusts his grip, adjusts his speed, and tries to work out just how much pressure Draco likes best. He thinks that if Draco’s low moans are anything to go by, he seems to like just about anything Harry’s doing to him and even though it’s not exactly what Draco asked for, Harry is too hooked, too invested to stop and try anything else. It doesn’t take long for Draco to match his strokes by slowly thrusting into his fist and as Draco’s moans increase in volume, Harry strokes harder and faster. Soon enough, Draco goes rigid above him, tenses, throws his head back, then, on second thought, buries his head in Harry’s chest, groans and comes all over Harry’s hand and the front of Harry’s jeans. Harry strokes him through his orgasm and only stops when Draco places his hand above his and stills his movements. “Fuck, Harry, that was incredible,” Draco breathes and Harry flushes at the praise.

“It’s not what you asked for though,” he sighs and Draco gives a low throaty laugh.

“No, but it was fucking amazing,” he says, takes a shaky breath, and looks at Harry, who shudders. “Give me a minute, and I’ll return the favour, he promises and Harry bites his lips and feels like he might just come from that promise alone. He also has the distinct feeling that they’ll be doing a lot more than just snogging in the three weeks until the school term finishes and he can’t wait to get started because this, with Draco, feels too right to be wrong, too good to be ashamed about his lack of knowledge on all things sex.


	30. Movie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't at all what I'd originally had in mind for this chapter, but somehow the boys rather had a mind of their own and weren't at all inclined to listen to reason...not that I really had any.

“Harry! Wake up already!”

With a groan, Harry grudgingly moves underneath the heavy winter duvet and opens his eyes. He is bleary-eyed and without his glasses, everything around him is just a strange blur of distorted shapes. It doesn’t help that the bedroom is dimly-lit, though he doesn’t quite understand why. He is fairly sure that he turned the lights off before falling asleep several hours ago. He blinks a few times, tries to focus on Draco and sighs. He’s mildly annoyed about Draco waking him in the middle of the sodding night and just wants to go back to sleep already. _That dream was really rather lovely_ , he thinks wistfully and feels it slip away and beyond his grasp as the details of it rapidly become a fuzzy not-quite-there-memory.

“What is it, Draco?” he asks, his voice sleep-laden and husky.

“That movie, I can’t get those pralines out of my head, I want… _need_ chocolate!” Draco exclaims and Harry notes that he’s kneeling on the bed.

“Then go get some,” he sighs and wonders why in Merlin’s good name Draco had to wake him up to tell him that he wants chocolate. He is fully aware of Draco’s penchant for sweets and usually makes a point to always have some in the house, which is why he doesn’t understand why Draco doesn’t just help himself to some from the kitchen cupboard. He bloody well knows where they are and if he’s miraculously forgotten — _which Harry highly doubts because Draco never forgets about sweets_ — their usual location, Draco is a rather accomplished wizard, he can simply use a summoning charm, they learnt it in their first year at Hogwarts, though Harry is pretty sure Draco learnt it much earlier what with his pureblood magical upbringing and all.

“You have none,” Draco informs him with what Harry assumes it meant to be a rather pointed look. He blinks, thinks that Draco is pouting again and shuffles around in bed until he’s lying on his back. He gropes for his glasses, shoves them onto his face, blinks again and sighs with relief when his vision sharpens. Draco is indeed pouting and Harry’s sluggish brain is awake enough to decide that Draco looks rather cute when he’s acting all petulant. It is also awake enough to helpfully remind him that it would be safer for his balls if he didn’t mention this to Draco and he wisely keeps his mouth firmly shut.

“Then you’re just going to have to wait until the shops open tomorrow morning,” Harry mumbles and already tired of this conversation, he moves to take his glasses off again but yelps when Draco slaps his arm, hard.

“I said I need chocolate!” he glowers and Harry raises a questioning eyebrow at him and briefly wonders whether he’ll live to see the morning if he asks Draco whether he’s lost his sanity. He reckons he won’t and after spending years trying to survive seemingly never-ending attempts on his life by a megalomaniac lunatic-wizard, Harry has developed a tender fondness for the opportunity to grow old in peace.

“I’d conjure you some if that was at all possible, but sadly it isn’t,” Harry says and exhale heavily and audibly. Instead of removing his glasses, he rubs his stinging upper arm and can’t help but question whether Draco’s treatment of him falls into the domestic violence category.

“I really, really need chocolate, Harry,” Draco whines and there is that pout again. Harry reckons it will be the death of him before he turns twenty-five.

“Waiting until the morning won’t kill you,” He responds resolutely and wonders when he’s become so bloody reasonable and calm. He also vows to never ever take Draco to see a movie about any kind of sweets because evidently, the result of it is that Draco will deny him a peaceful night’s sleep because he has a wicked craving he can’t seem to control. Harry makes a mental note to ask Hermione if there is a potion to improve one’s control over one’s cravings. If there is, he fully plans to slip the potion into Draco’s morning tea and doesn’t even care one iota about how immoral or wrong the idea is.

“It will, I want it so bad, I can’t sleep,” Draco insists. “It’s driving me barmy.”

“Then stay awake,” Harry rolls his eyes, which earns him another slap. He wants to say that he thinks Draco is already barmy but he doesn’t because he knows that making that kind of comments never end well…or in his favour.

“You’re a crap boyfriend, absolutely _rubbish_. You can go out and get some at one of those places Muggles use to put that weird potion into their automobiles,” Draco tells him and Harry arranges himself into a half-sitting position. He looks at Draco and considers his next words very carefully. He is by now awake enough to realise that they’re less than five minutes away from having a full-blown argument and that’s the least Harry wants. And an argument about fucking chocolate…no! Harry is willing to argue about a lot of things — _mostly because fighting with Draco always leads to amazing make-up sex_ — but chocolate is not going to be one of the things they fight over.

“ _Theoretically_ , so could you,” he replies and Draco’s eyes narrow instantly. Harry sighs and knows he’s said the wrong thing after all.

“Muggle money confuses me; besides it’s freezing cold out.”

“What a wonderfully logical argument in your defence,” Harry mumbles and this time Draco hits him with a stinging hex. Harry’s confused about how quickly Draco’s managed to draw his wand and reckons he’s not fit to be an Auror after all. “Your methods of persuasion lack finesse, Draco Malfoy.”

“I’m not trying to persuade you, I’m telling you that I absolutely must have some chocolate and I want you to get up and get me some.”

Mildly annoyed, Harry rubs his sore shoulder and glares at Draco. “What are you, five?” he demands to know, still completely unenthusiastic about the prospect of having to get out of bed and apparating out into the cold to find Draco some chocolate. He knows he could, but he’s tired. He’s also rather cranky because Draco sodding Malfoy woke him in the middle of the night and is making completely unreasonable demands…demands only a bloody pregnant woman would make! He’s sorely tempted to ask Draco whether he’s, in fact, pregnant but doesn’t quite feel brave enough for what the immediate aftermath of asking such a question will bring.

“You don’t love me,” Draco crosses his arms over his chest, hmpfs and sticks out his bottom lip in petulant defiance. Harry doesn’t quite know what to respond to that accusation and to buy himself some time he sits up fully, attempts to unknot Draco’s crossed arms and pulls his huffy boyfriend towards him.

“You can be as pissed off as you want about my unwillingness to get up in the middle of the night to go out to buy you some chocolate but you will not bring my feelings for you into this,” he says resolutely and when Draco opens his mouth to say something, Harry lunges forward, pushes him into the mattress and shuts him up with a fierce kiss. It takes a bit of gentle coercion before Draco kisses him back but eventually he does and when Harry pulls away, the realisation that he is indeed about to get up in the middle of a bitter-cold sodding December night to apparate to a petrol station to find Draco some chocolate. He kisses Draco’s forehead, his nose and his lips and decides that it isn’t Draco Malfoy who has lost his sanity, it’s Harry Potter. He bites back a sigh, scrambles out from underneath the covers, and grudgingly gets out of bed. “You fucking owe me big time for this, Malfoy,” he mutters, doesn’t bother with his slippers, grabs his wand, and summons the thickest winter coat he owns.

It flies out of the en-suite dressing room and straight into his hand and he slips into it, pulls up the collar and summons his Auror-issued dragonhide boots from downstairs. There is absolutely no way he is going to go drag himself down three flights of stairs just to put the bloody shoes on! He slips into his comfortable, fur-lined boots, fastens the clasp at the top with a swoosh of his wand and, finally, he summons his wallet, the one that contains his Muggle money. He stuffs it into his coat pocket, throws Draco a withering look and disapparates on the spot.

It takes him an hour of apparating to various petrol stations in the outskirts of London before he finally finds the kind of chocolate Draco won’t throw at his head, brandish as cheap and refuse to eat. He buys more than strictly necessary, puts his purchases into a brown paper bag and marches back out into the freezing cold. He shivers, finds a dark corner and disapparates into the black of the night. Moments later he reappears in his bedroom and Grimmauld Place and notes that Draco is rather lazily lounging on his bed. _Git_ , he thinks, tosses Draco the bag of chocolates and peels himself out of the winter coat and dragonhide boots.

As he sits down on the bed, he notes a steaming mug of tea that’s sitting on his nightstand and turns his head to look at Draco.

“Thought you might be cold so I made you some tea,” Draco tells him and Harry’s annoyance over Draco’s impossible demands dissipates in an instant. He reaches for the tea, wraps his frozen fingers around the hot mug and takes a few small sips, careful not to burn himself. He then shuffles into a sitting position, leans back against the pillows, and opens his mouth when Draco offers him a caramel-flavoured praline. He isn’t particularly fond of chocolates but the blissed-out expression on Draco’s face makes him want to indulge too.

“You truly are The Saviour,” Draco grins at him, pops another piece of chocolate into his mouth and looks like a cat who got her bowl of cream.

“Call me that again and you’ll be needing a very accomplished healer to save you,” Harry warns him with a pointed look but his threat lacks bite. It’s lacked that for well over a year now…

“I’m not scared of you, Potter!” Draco rolls his eyes at him. Harry ignores him and drinks his tea instead. No longer in the mood to sleep, he abandons any attempts to even try and reaches for the book on his nightstand instead, but has he opens it he can’t help but wonder exactly when he’s going to pluck up the courage to ask Draco to move in with him.


	31. Believe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, time to post the last chapter. Sad (and also quite exhilarated) to let this one go. First it's been a series of moments from Draco's POV which then grew into this massive 60k+ monster of a series of moments from Harry's POV, but all good things must come to an end. I truly, truly, truly enjoyed the Writober Challenge and the inspiration that came out of it. I feel so utterly grateful to be writing again, it's proving to be a very healing journey, no idea why I ever thought I could live without out.
> 
> I know at least one person who will disagree with me, but I'm going to pretend not to notice. I still love you though and I'll have something else for you soon!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who refused to let me give up on this (Julz, Kayden, Deb, you have been truly wonderful, allowing me to throw around ideas and picking me up off the ground when I truly wanted to throw in the towel) and of course massive thanks to everyone who has been reading quietly (and/or leaving comments along the way). I wanted to go out with a bang on this last chapter but it's more of a faint (and very fluffy) pop.

* * *

“Damnit! Malfoy!” Harry hollers from the bottom of the staircase for the umpteenth time and crosses his arms over his chest in annoyance. He is absolutely ready to throw a few choice words at Draco’s head, when his husband, with only Slytherin-green towel wrapped around his lithe hips and still dripping wet, appears at the top of the staircase. His hair is a dishevelled mess and Harry swallows hard, momentarily forgets all about his irritation and simply stares, quite unabashedly so. He’s vaguely aware of the fact that his mouth is hanging slightly open and that he looks like a proper fool but isn’t at all inclined to gather himself and behave like normal human being. He doesn’t think the term ‘normal human being’ applies to him at all. Given all that he’s experienced growing up and the fact that he’s only the most well-known wizard in all of Britain, the term never once applied to him, nor will it ever apply to him. ‘Normal’ is a word he’s never ever used to describe anything even just remotely related to himself

“Like what you see, Potter?” Draco teases and draws him out of his reverie with a positively mischievous smirk. Harry watches him lift his arm and comb his fingers through his damp hair, ruffling it up even more.

“Hell yes,” Harry breathes. “You gorgeous man you, you promised to help me with that bloody speech for that sodding Ministry function, come down here already.”

“Let me put on some clothes first,” Draco responds.

“Don’t you fucking dare cover up that sexy body of yours,” Harry tells him immediately and drinks in the sight of his strikingly handsome husband.

“You sure you’ll be able to concentrate?” Draco laughs, slowly, and rather elegantly with his hips suggestively swaying from side to side, comes down the staircase and Harry licks his lips in anticipation. He’s not at all sure that he’ll be able to concentrate on anything other than ravishing Draco, quite possibly against the staircase bannister, but he’s willing to try and test his resolve. He doesn’t think it’ll go well, reckons he’s yet to learn how not to jump Draco Malfoy at any given chance and the moment Draco is within reaching distance, he lungs forward, pulls him into his arms and kisses him firmly.

“You beautiful thing you,” he whispers, inhales deeply and savours the citrusy scent of Draco’s shampoo.

“You’re not so bad looking yourself, Potter, quite the sight for sore eyes really,” Draco pays him a compliment in return and Harry sighs softly, though not with regret but with the pure unadulterated bliss he feels over the knowledge that Draco is his and will always be his. He thinks he’s probably a tad bit overconfident, but knows that Draco is the one person he’ll fight to the death to keep.

“If only I could make this speech about you, I’d know exactly what to say,” Harry mumbles, trails a single finger along Draco’s jawline and rests his hand on Draco’s damp shoulder. He leans in and kisses Draco’s collarbone gently. He’s very much tempted to apparate them both upstairs and into their bedroom, rip that towel off Draco’s hips and spend the next several hours worshipping Draco’s body with an avalanche of kisses, but notes, albeit with regret, that he does possess the ability to restrain himself.

“Because you did such a marvellous job at our wedding,” Draco mocks him and Harry rolls his eyes.

“You were distracting,” he attempts to defend himself.  
  
“Why? I don’t recall dancing naked in front of everyone. I was fully-clothed, sitting beside you, listening with rapt attention.”

“I was very emotional that day,” Harry tries a different approach but Draco merely laughs.

“Like I wasn’t, yet I still managed to deliver a decent speech.”

“I didn’t screw up my wedding vows!” Harry says with mild indignation but softens when Draco kisses him gently and nods.

“Indeed, you didn’t. And that wedding speech truly was one of kind.”

Harry groans and tries to turn away but Draco almost automatically sneaks an arm around his waist and stops him from doing so.

“Show us what you’ve got so far,” Draco prompts, elegantly pushes past him and Harry allows Draco to grab his hand and drag him back to his study, which he’s managed to turn into a complete war zone. Broken quills and balled up parchments cover almost every surface and Harry risks a cursory glance at his husband. If Draco is at all shocked over the state of the room, he’s doing a very good job at remaining unfazed. Harry steps through the mess and over to his desk where he reaches for a parchment, looks at it with disdain and resolutely hands over to Draco, who takes it and begins to read. Harry watches him, watches Draco’s lips move as he reads quietly, stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets and waits, exhibiting more patience than he thinks he possesses. He tells himself that he’s not at all bothered by the fact that Draco used to work as an editor at a world-renown wizarding publishing house and is a well-known author with several best-selling books to show for.

A few minutes pass and Harry shuffles a little, contemplates sitting down but doesn’t and thinks the sight of Draco, fresh out of the shower and covered in only a towel, truly is a sight to behold. Harry doesn’t really understand how he manages to control himself and is at this stage fairly certain that nothing will ever quench his thirst and desire for Draco’s body and intellect. Over the last fifteen years, his feelings for Draco have only intensified and not a week goes by that he doesn’t discover something else he loves about Draco. It’s a whole bunch of little things that mesmerise him day in and day out. At their wedding, he had tried to give voice to those feelings, had gone off script in an attempt to explain his feelings for Draco to all those in attendance, but somehow he had stumbled over his own words and awkwardly stammered his way through an embarrassingly maudlin declaration of love nobody had really understood. His last, and biggest, blunder had been to quote the lyrics of a ridiculously romantic love song by an Australian pop duo at which point Draco had finally, and quite effectively, stopped him from speaking by jinxing his lips shut. Harry finds the memory rather horrifying and is actually grateful that Draco chooses exactly this moment to lift his eyes off the parchment and he can abandon his remincising about the less than perfect aspects of their wedding.

“So? What do you think?” Harry asks, rather nervously. He is sorely tempted to draw his wand and cast an _Incendio_ at the parchment in Draco’s hands.

“It’s not bad,” Draco’s response surprises him but Harry knows Draco well enough to know that there’s a ‘but’ coming his way.

“But?”

“It’ll need a couple of rewrites,” Draco tells him honestly and before Harry has really registered what’s going on, Draco has sat down at his desk and is holding a summoned quill which he dips into a bottle filled with red correction ink. Harry watches him skim over the parchment, cross out a few words and replace them with more suitable alternatives. About halfway through the speech Draco crosses out a large block of Harry’s speech and does the same again towards the end, then notes a ‘rewrite required’ next to the crossed out sections. Feeling rather curious, Harry pushes himself off the edge of his desk, steps behind his office chair and bracing himself on the armrests of his chair, he leans forward and gently rests his chin on Draco’s shoulder. He places a chaste kiss on the curve of Draco’s neck and is rather impressed that it doesn’t appear to distract Draco at all. For a moment, he is tempted to see how much it will take to actually divert Draco’s attention, but he’s sensible enough not to venture down that particular path. He does actually, quite desperately so, need Draco’s help and the last he wants to do is annoy Draco to the degree that he refuses to help. Therefore, he dutifully skims over Draco’s proposed changes, agrees with every amendment Draco’s made, and when Draco finishes his edits, he withdraws a little and gives his husband the space to rotate the chair around and face him.

“Are you going to rewrite those two sections for me?” Harry asks hopefully and feels rather dejected when Draco shakes his head.

“No, you’ll rewrite them and then I’ll check them,” he says quite firmly and Harry opens his mouth in immediate protest but Draco’s stern glare shuts him up before he’s even mumbled the first syllable.

“I believe in you, Harry.” Draco’s words are simple, soft, and sincere and whatever arguments Harry thought he had, instantly vanish without a trace. All that remains is his wildly thumping heart that reminds exactly how much he loves Draco and while he’s never lacked the support of his friends and adopted family, it somehow all pales in comparison to having the support of the one person he’s chosen to spend the rest of his life with. _This is it_ , he thinks. The little things, the simple things, they are what matter, not the grand gestures, not the daily snarking, not the sex, not what _The Prophet_ writes about them, not his job, not Draco’s dark past or the effort he’s put into redeeming his family name. No. It’s this. It’s being able to be completely open with Draco, ask for advice, ask for help, without the slightest feeling of shame. It’s getting said advice – _honest and straight-forward_ , getting said help – _always and without question_.

“I love you,” Harry whispers the words, reaches out for Draco, and pulls him to his feet and into his arms. “I love you so fucking much, I don’t know how I ever contemplated not coming back after he killed me.”

“You are such a sap, Potter,” Draco says with mocking affection, engulfes him in a tight hug and Harry wraps his own arms around Draco and clings to his husband as though letting go means he’ll lose him, which he knows he won’t, but still. “And I love you too.” Draco’s words are all but a faint whisper but Harry doesn’t need Draco to speak up because he’s heard him loud and clear.


End file.
